


In The Beginning

by WhenBachDropsTheBeat



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Humor, Multi, The Death of Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:40:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10043096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenBachDropsTheBeat/pseuds/WhenBachDropsTheBeat
Summary: King Louis' Musketeers are getting a new recruit, bothering Porthos and forcing Athos to pay closer attention.





	1. Porthos Is Bothered

**Author's Note:**

> Writer's Block is a terrible affliction. I am stopped dead in the midst of a much darker piece. *This* was supposed to be a cure. 
> 
> Readers-who-are-Readers, I hope you like it.  
> Readers-who-are-Writers, just look away. 
> 
> This can't be called an Alternate Universe, but perhaps a Questionably Related Universe, which correctly implies that I have ignored historic and literary timelines to suit my lazy, careless muse. As I live a fair distance from Monsieur Dumas' final resting place, I can declare with confidence that the noise of his spinning in place will not keep me up nights. 
> 
> I have also taken liberties with The Craft, so important things like POV can be best described metaphorically as an overloaded bus with failing brakes careening madly down the daunting switchbacks of the Andes. I also confess to indulging in a number of cheap plot devices - a dime, a dozen. For the zoologically-minded amongst us, I make gratuitous reference to: peacocks, a whippet, wildcats, rabbits, kittens and puppies. Oh. Also - a bear. 
> 
> And Porthos makes an unfortunate reference to chicken plucking. Once. Just once. Please. Let the man have his moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     “Oi! He’s botherin’ the ‘ell outta me!”

     “Who?” Athos swung his gaze left to right in rapid response to his friend Porthos’ outburst, searching for the cause. They were just one short league out of Lyon, riding at the head of a royal retinue on their return to Paris. “Are you seeing some problem that I do not?”

     He tensed and made ready to reach for the musket secured on his saddle, close to his knee. This was, after all, a security detail, despite all its appearance of pomp and pageantry.

     This trip had been blessedly boring so far. He had hoped it would remain that way. King Louis XIII was to be married in this year and there seemed to be no end to the diplomatic visitations that were deemed necessary to make sure the event was celebrated in the diplomatic world theatre as a statement of peace between France and Spain, all other indicators to the contrary.

     Cardinal Richelieu was using these tours to cement relations with nobles, civil authorities and religious leaders. Peace in France meant a show of force to the Spanish King Phillip who had cunningly offered up his infant sister’s hand in marriage to the infant French prince years before.

     More than a mere betrothal, the promised marriage had set off years of intrigue - a sort of silent chess match - between agents of King Phillip and King Louis - which was to say, Cardinal Richelieu, acting on the young king’s behalf.

     In the midst of all the subterfuge, the young king had sent this large company of his personal guard to meet and escort a number of Spanish emissaries that included Spain’s aging ambassador to France. It was a formality - a gesture of gratitude as the old man had been in Lyon for several months, supposedly assisting King Louis’ cause by easing concerns over a small number of Spanish business interests that had settled uneasily in the city - with significant help from France’s scheming prime minister.

     Leaving Lyon this morning were thirty kingsmen, mounted troops in ornate uniform, royal banners and the French flag flying at the head of an entourage.

     All that was clearly not on Porthos du Vallon’s mind as he rode in his place near the head of the royal retinue.  “The _problem_ is in the back, Athos. The shiny new recruit!” 

     Athos turned slightly in his saddle and cast a glance at the ranks of riders behind them. 

     “If you mean the dark-haired uniformed stranger riding at the back of the entourage - on the _other_ side of the road - possibly as far as one can be from us and yet still be considered actually within the borders of France - then, yes, I can see him. From this daunting distance, how has he managed to send you into such turmoil, my friend?”

     Head shaking and huffing, Porthos was in a genuine tizzy. “Look at ‘im! Does ‘e look like a soldier to you? Or is ‘e way too pretty t’ be a soldier?” He huffed again and grumbled, “Looks like a girl.”

     Athos smirked at that. “Porthos. He most definitely does not look like a girl. I suggest you get out more often.”

     “An’ ‘ow _old_ is ‘e, for God’s sake? No facial hair!” the other man squawked, tugging at his own fastidiously trimmed beard as if it were some earned badge of adulthood. “Is Treville so desperate t’ fill the regimental ranks that ‘e is robbin’ the cradles of France?”

     “I am forced, at this point in your peculiar tirade, to remind you that you were the youngest in our garrison not so long ago. He doesn’t seem that many years younger than you, dear brother, and I think we can safely say that _boy_ back there has been well out of his nappies for some time now. As for his lack of beard, perhaps it isn’t the fashion in Lyon just yet. Treville is bringing a number of new men to our garrison soon. I expect to see a few fresh faces among them, bearded or no.”

     “Yeah, well...” Porthos grumbled. He fell into a sullen silence for a brief moment. It didn’t last long. Evidently, he was not done nit-picking the enigmatic stranger. “How did ‘e get on this duty, anyway? ‘e sure as ‘ell ain’ at full commission. No pauldron! No sigil! Did ya notice? An’ ‘is uniform is too clean.”

     Really? 

     Athos hazarded another quick look. It appeared Porthos was right about the fellow not being a fully commissioned musketeer. So, yes, his presence in this entourage was odd, but they had all been informed that there were about a dozen men that were going to be joining the Paris regiment soon. Some would join as fully commissioned musketeers, some - like this young one - would be put through Captain Treville’s challenges to prove their mettle before being awarded their commission. 

     Fully commissioned or not, he had the uniform necessary for this trip and said uniform was most definitely immaculate. And admirably form-fitting. Did the man have a private tailor?

     “I thought that clean uniforms, at a minimum, were one of the requirements for this trip. Excepting that bit of gravy on your sleeve from this morning's breakfast, you have admirably met that goal. Why are you so fascinated with this fellow?”

     Porthos ignored the personal question as he peevishly brushed at both sleeves of his uniform. Clearly, he was in a mood. “I ‘eard ‘e’s a protegé of Marsac.”

     “Marsac? The ‘Lion of Lyon’-Marsac?” Briefly intrigued, Athos cast another glance back at the newcomer. The sword that swayed at the hip of the junior musketeer was new. Looked expensive. As flashy as Marsac’s own, from what Athos recalled of Marsac’s legendary blade the last time the man had met him in challenge.

     Athos smiled to himself at the most recent memory of the challenges between them. Marsac had learned - again - that even legends must have their moments of truth.

     Athos held firm to his reputation as the best swordsman in Paris and therefore, France, but Marsac was damn near his equal in the Lyon infantry. If Marsac had deigned to take this dewey-eyed fresh face under his wing, perhaps the young man had some talent of his own with a blade?

     Interesting, but not interesting enough to hold Athos’ attention. “Ignore that good-looking youngster, my brother. He travels with us to Paris in hopes of staying in our company. Many have tried, I remind you, few are chosen.”

     “Well, _he_ ain’ all the Marsac news tha’s bein’ bandied about, brother,” Porthos said. 

     When did Porthos become so enamored of garrison gossip? Had they been away from any exciting assignments for so long that his beloved brother in arms was devolving?

     It was no use. Athos knew he, too, was bored. He looked out from under the brim of his hat at the big handsome soldier that rode beside him, wordlessly expectant. 

     Well?

     Porthos grin was smug with victory; it was no small feat to catch Athos’ attention with what he considered busy-body chatter. “Beside the pretty newcomer back there, our regiment may be gettin’ _another_ special gift from the Lyon infantry. Rumor ‘as it, it’s Marsac ‘imself - at full commission. Marsac - a musketeer! Hell must be freezing' over!”

     Athos lifted his brows in surprise at that. He could take Marsac; he could leave Marsac. Perhaps he only felt that way about the well-known soldier as long as he was miles from Paris, though. Sharing garrison space - oh, hell - sharing _city_ space with that braggart might be a challenge that would go well beyond swordplay in the arena.

     Marsac, who had made a name for himself in the infantry, had been snobbish, dismissive of King Louis’ Musketeers. Marsac was dismissive about quite a lot, as Athos recalled. 

     Apparently, he had changed his mind, and Athos had to wonder if it had anything to do with their new addition. Too bad. If the young man had come to Paris hoping to break out from under the shadow of the great Marsac, he was going to need more than good looks, an immaculate uniform, and an expensive new sword.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 


	2. Athos Is Not Drunk Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos sighed again. “I confess, I don’t know why you are so obsessed with that fellow. Do you even know the name of your handsome hector?”
> 
> Porthos’ response was a sullen mutter. “Aramis.”
> 
> Athos struggled over the noise in the tavern and the buzz in his brain to hear him correctly. He leaned forward, cupped his ear and furrowed his brows in a genuine, but sloppy, show of consternation. “Ara-What? Arrogance? That’s an exceedingly odd nom d’guerre.” 
> 
> How drunk was he going to have to be to get through this conversation with his distressed brother?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     “He’s ‘ere, Athos. Botherin’ me. Again.”

     Athos looked up from the empty jug of wine, the replacement of which he just had begun woozily contemplating. Porthos sat so heavily at his table that he had had to reach quickly to save his already-poured drink from sloshing out of the cup. 

     Ah. Miraculously preserved. Reflexes still working, he thought grimly. Still not drunk enough.

     “I thought you were busy fleecing the unsuspecting at cards.” If he spoke slowly, his words came out perfectly, he noted to himself with some personal satisfaction. 

     Not so drunk yet that Porthos would need to carry him home. 

     He would have to up his game.

     “I was! I was!” Porthos said, flapping his arms, rocking the table. The wine jug tilted perilously. Athos slowly moved the endangered vessel to his side, while furrowing his brows in a bleary attempt to look both interested and supportive as Porthos ranted. “I started losin’! _Losin’_ , Athos! _Me_! Jus’ as soon as _‘e_ waltzed in.”

     Athos couldn’t help it; Porthos wasn’t making sense. The blue-eyed soldier was a wee bit too drunk to school his expressions, and his face slipped toward utter confusion. 

     “He?” 

     Whomever was his friend ranting about? He looked about the dim, smoky public house. Lights were low. Laughter was loud. The evening was well afoot, and Athos had been content in his darkened corner. 

     Until now.

     Now, he was faced with his beloved bear of a brother, ranting about a mysterious tormenter.  Athos surveyed the room again, blinking to clear his blurring eyes. 

     Oh. He should have guessed.

     There “he” was. The young whippet of a soldier recently forced upon their company by Captain Treville’s edict. The lovely burr in Porthos’ saddle - driving his brother to distraction - ever since he had been added to their royal entourage returning from Lyon.     

     Perhaps it was simply by association, but Athos had to admit he was beginning to feel a bit of annoyance with the man’s presence, too. He seemed to be everywhere they were, yet there had been no formal introductions, and the man had been notably absent from training rosters and regular procedurals at the garrison today. A peculiar way to achieve a commission in Treville’s musketeers.

     More likely, though, Athos’ annoyance had more to do with Porthos’ unrelenting complaints.

     This morning, Porthos described the new recruit as “lurking” around the training arena -  content to stand in the shade, eating apples and watching every other musketeer in the regiment as they engaged in swordplay and combat exercises. Most strange.  

     Certainly, the young man was keeping a low profile in the garrison. 

     Which was laughable, since his remarkable good looks, obvious youth, flashy unmarred uniform bristling with pristine weaponry, and the cloud of rumors and mystery he brought to the regiment easily earned him glances, glares and a host of conjectures and hypotheses about the reason for his presence. Some cruel, some kind. 

     His meetings with Treville - which seemed to be all that was required of him - did not help.

     Athos noted that the fellow had managed to grow a reputation in a remarkably short period of time without any effort on his part. For better or worse, that reputation had grown more preposterous every hour since his arrival. Curiously, he made no attempt to correct opinions or to avoid scrutiny. Aside from the sunny pleasantries he made toward everybody, his business in the Paris garrison seemed to be between him and Captain Treville.

     Out of a certain amount of disdain for chin-wagging, as well as his own world weariness, Athos had kept himself distanced from the newcomer and all the gossip surrounding him. The older musketeer couldn’t say for sure that he had even heard the man’s name. 

     Porthos, who was as fascinated as Athos was oblivious, had not - bless him- shared anything more than his perplexing personal aggravation.

     The Treville angle was intriguing. This solitary attention to a single musketeer recruit was not like their captain. Although Athos had to admit to himself, he and Porthos had enjoyed a small bit of special consideration from Captain Treville. 

     But they had earned it, he reasoned. What could this upstart have done? Indeed, given his youth, what could he even have accomplished in his seemingly brief career in the military - to have earned any consideration from their captain?

     To Athos, that was the bigger mystery. Why was this young man here? 

     When Athos’ eyes happened to meet those of the newcomer across the room, the man turned quickly into an embrace being offered enthusiastically by the most buxom of the trio of maidens that had gathered around him like hens after the sweetest kernel of corn. 

     Athos frowned. 

     Most strange, indeed.

     Feeling suddenly more sober, Athos returned his attention to his brother’s fit of exasperation. The man’s effect on Porthos was strangest of all. “You? Losing at cards? What did your new friend do? I can’t imagine him besting you. Had he actually joined your game?”

     “No,” Porthos muttered, punching a fist down on his knee, signaling he, too, was confounded by that minor annoying fact. “ An’ don’ call ‘im my friend.”

     “I don’t understand. Had he interrupted your game? Critiqued your strategies? Offered suggestions?” Athos paused with a purposefully dramatic intake of breath, as if horrified by a sudden realization, then pressed on with a crooked smile. “Don’t tell me! He dared call you out on one of your spectacular sleights of hand?”

     Porthos took a moment to glare impatiently at his brother in arms. “If ‘e ‘ad, do ya really think that enough o’ that stunnin’  face o’ his woulda survived to be entertainin’ all those gigglin’  girls o’er there?” He shook his head, huffing under his breath. “His very presence sucks the air outta this place, Athos.”

     “Ah! An unforgivable crime, I agree. And yet, we still breathe, my friend,” Athos sighed, patting the dark fist that rested closest to him on the table. “I assure you, the little bastard will not win the battle for our fresh air in this wholesome - ” He paused to point at a cockroach skittering over a nearby empty table, “and sanitary - establishment.”

     His blue eyes twinkled with amusement when Porthos looked up at his jibe, his dark handsome face twisted in pure confusion. Athos? Jesting?

     “I’m glad yer ‘avin’ such a fine time with all my misery, brother,” Porthos growled. He snatched Athos’ cup from him just as he was about to get the last generous swallow of wine to his mouth. 

     Gone. In a fraction of a second. 

     Athos blinked. That was a far faster end to the life of that wine than he personally had intended for it.

     Porthos slammed the empty cup to the table and smacked his lips much too loudly. “And now -- I’m ‘avin’ a fine time, too!” he declared, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

     Athos sighed again. “I confess, I don’t know why you are so obsessed with that fellow.  Do you even know the name of your handsome hector?”

     Porthos’ response was a sullen mutter. “Aramis.”

     Athos struggled over the noise in the tavern and the buzz in his brain to hear him correctly. He leaned forward, cupped his ear and furrowed his brows in a genuine, but sloppy, show of  consternation. “Ara-What? Arrogance? That’s an exceedingly odd nom d’guerre.” 

     How drunk was he going to have to be to get through this conversation with his distressed brother? 

     Exasperated, Porthos dropped his head and looked at Athos as if he was asking himself the same question. “Dammit, Athos! Lis’en!” he growled.

     He leaned over the table toward his brother in arms until their foreheads were nearly touching and bellowed over the din - “ARAMIS! ARAMIS! ARAMIS!” -  chopping the air with his broad hands, as if punctuating the name.

     The tavern din seemed to drop away all too suddenly. 

     Startled, Athos and Porthos looked up to see the man himself standing at the end of their table, a new bottle of wine in one hand, two of the three lovely maidens clinging possessively to each arm. 

     The sight did nothing to lift Porthos’ mood, and he began shaking his head in that way that always reminded Athos of a bear signaling he was about to charge.

      There was no change on the young recruit’s most pleasant face, Athos noted with some fascination - unless if it was possible to say that he was even more handsome in close proximity. Brown eyes, brighter. Teeth, whiter. Stance, straighter.

     Oh, he is most definitely aware of his effect on his fellow brother in arms, Athos thought, as he watched him place the bottle he held in front of Porthos.

     A not-so-subtle offering. As if Porthos was a god and the table before him, an altar.

     “My apologies, gentlemen. I was certain I had heard my name.” He was looking pointedly at Porthos, the full force of the nameless charm spell he held Porthos in working to make the big man flush darker than his normal beautiful earthy hue.

     “For the love of God!” Porthos roared, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “It’s like I jus’ invoked a demon by name ’n’ ‘ere ya are!” 

     The young man did not appear to take insult. Instead he flashed a smile at Porthos so dazzling that Athos would have described it as a come-on were the man an actual woman. Then he tilted his head toward the ear of one of the women and whispered something, looking very serious and nodding toward Porthos.

     The lovely red-headed woman giggled and spun gracefully to seat herself beside Porthos, as the young soldier bowed slightly to Athos, then Porthos in turn.  “Gentlemen, please forgive my unfortunate misunderstanding. I offer the wine as a gift toward the promise of future meetings. Enjoy the night,” he said with his radiant smile and left their table with the other woman in tow.

     Porthos blinked and looked at the woman beside him. 

     Now what was supposed to happen? 

     Athos realized that he had personally arrived at just the right amount of inebriation. Porthos’ squirming was actually quite entertaining now, a proper repayment for the hours spent listening to his brother’s complaints about the new recruit.

     And that last stolen swallow of wine.

     The red-head giggled and leaned forward to whisper something in Porthos ear. Athos couldn’t decide if it was shock or scandal that he saw slowly move over the big man’s face.

     “He said WHAT?!” Porthos boomed. 

     Oh. It was indignation. 

     Athos felt something akin to laughter bubble up in his chest, but he restrained himself. Best to be supportive in Porthos’ moment of distress.

     The large musketeer removed the woman’s inquisitive fingers from his lap. “I don’ see ‘ow ‘e could have _any_ actual knowledge of my... my...” 

     The red-head leaned to the big man’s ear again, whispering earnestly.

     He threw up his hands. “Ya know what, mademoiselle? Athos ’n’ I are quite capable of finding our own comfort this evenin’!” 

     Wha...?

     It was Athos’ turn to be indignant. He didn’t like the way that sounded - on either end of Porthos’ unfortunate double entendre. How had he suddenly become part of this half-heard conversation? What exactly had been proposed?

     “So, darlin’ woman, interestin’ as yer proposal sounds, both of us will ‘ave to decline.” Porthos was setting the woman firmly on her feet and pointing across the room. “An’ ya can tell the fancy cupcake over there that ‘e can go fu- ”

     Time to go.

     Athos stood quickly, slipping two coins toward the red-head who was now regarding _him_ like a ten-course meal. He grabbed the gifted bottle of wine and pulled Porthos to his feet. 

     “What Porthos would _actually_ like you to tell his ‘fancy cupcake’ is that we are most grateful for the wine and for his apparent concern for our needs.” 

     The woman gave him a wink and a nod, pocketed the coins and was off.

     To the flustered Porthos, Athos said, “Come, brother. It is time for us to leave anyway.” He reached for his hat and settled it on his head, low over his brow, sensing that Treville’s new recruit was once again looking their way now that the woman had returned to his side. “Let us leave this place to your _daemon sauvage_. Treville’s _enfant terrible_. Our _enfant bizarre_.” 

     He maneuvered the big man through the maze of tables, chairs, and patrons toward the door as he kept up the distracting, if somewhat uncharacteristic, chatter. Anything to keep Porthos moving forward to the street.

     “Tomorrow we have to take part in yet another procession and stand for yet another state dinner at the Louvre. King Louis’ court is still playing host to the Spanish emissaries. Still trying to make sure the royal wedding will successfully take place,” he chatted amiably over Porthos’ shoulder. “And I have not gotten _nearly_ drunk enough to get me through the increasing frequency of these Spanish visitations. War would be less complicated than this royal wedding.”

     Porthos growled again as they neared the door. They had both observed that the musketeer recruit had moved on from his gaggle of female admirers and now seemed to have gathered a crowd of male admirers, entertaining them with some tale of derring-do as the two passed by.

     “Courage, brother. Steady on,” Athos added as he steered Porthos away from the other man’s audience. “I pray you, do not even look at your fancy cupcake! He grows ever more comely and glows like the rising sun the closer we get to him.”

     “Shut up, Athos. Jus’ shut the fuck up. ‘ave ya ever been told ya talk too much?”

     “No. Never, actually. I confess, your obsession with this fellow - and his obsession with you -  is becoming somewhat entertaining. Take heart! I cannot imagine that he will be part of tomorrow’s planned festivities, newcomer that he is. You will have some respite from your troubles.”

     At that, when they got out onto the street,  Porthos looked back at the door, lost in thought. 

     “You think he is obsessed with me?”

     Porthos’ question went unanswered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	3. Porthos Is Bothered - Again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Treville was standing toe to toe in front of them, eyes hard. “Are we -” He tersely waved a hand indicating the crowd of dignitaries behind him. “- cutting into your visiting time, boys?”
> 
> “No, sir. Apologies, sir.” They whispered as one, drawing themselves up to attention.
> 
> “We’ll discuss it. Tomorrow. In my office. First thing in the morning.” he hissed. “I swear - the new recruit from Lyon has only been at court a few days and he seems to show more decorum than you two combined tonight.”
> 
> The air still felt overly warm where Treville had stood seconds before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Well, I was half-right, Athos thought darkly as he looked at the far corner of the opulent dining room. 

     There just beyond the platters of food, the vases of exotic flowers, dozens of silver and gold glowing candelabra and the hum of at least three dozen state and foreign seated dignitaries stood Porthos’ torment: the peach-cheeked peacock named Aramis. 

     Absent from the royal procession hours earlier in which twenty of Treville’s finest were paraded with King Louis and Cardinal Richelieu, the newest addition to the regiment was now ensconced in the far corner of the room - drawing admiring glances from matrons and maidens alike. - and perhaps a number of the men as well. 

     Tonight, the musketeer presence seemed ornamental. They appeared to be on display because the young king liked showing his personal soldiers off, dressed in finery not typically available to regular military. They were on guard, though, as always. The difference was supposed to be undetectable to the casual observer. 

     During the current visitation of dignitaries, the cardinal, always the paranoid pragmatist, had made it clear to Captain Treville that he suspected a spy - maybe several spies - among the entourage they had escorted to the Louvre from Lyon.

     Treville’s orders had placed them on high alert - not just here at the young king’s palace, but all across the city.

     The cardinal’s army, the Red Guard, had been deployed to the alleys and by-ways, but the much more picturesque Musketeer troops had been assigned the more visible presence. “Gilding the Guard”, Athos had termed it, in his sardonic way.

     “He’s botherin’ me.” Porthos huffed as he stood at attention beside Athos in their assigned positions close to the king. “Again.”

     Athos paused in his steady scan of the guests at the table, the comings and goings of busy servants, and anyone close enough to the king to cause potential harm. “Who?” he asked, despite knowing full well who Porthos was talking about.

     “That Aramis fellow. I thought ya said ‘e wouldn’ make it onto the roster for this assignment.”

     “I was mistaken, brother. _Mea Culpa._ Treville does not seek my counsel on these matters. It was merely a best guess.”

     Nonetheless, he allowed himself a moment to evaluate the musketeer recruit. He had to admit - the man did justice to the regimental colors. He wore the uniform leathers tight against a thin, but muscular, frame. Ebony tresses curled provocatively from beneath a shaded grey hat, balanced just-so on the young man’s head, with a plume of blue that surely did not come from any earthly feathered creature. Dark eyes, fringed with even darker lashes were visible - for God’s sake - even at this distance. 

     The man was a statue of Adonis, brought to life and wrapped in royal French blue.

     The Adonis was flashing those straight, pearl white teeth, too, Athos noted. Packaged in a smile that, deliberately or unwittingly, was causing a stir among some of the women at the far end of the room. Pointed stares or bashful glances - to say Aramis was bathing in them was to misunderstand what drowning would look like.

     Athos frowned. Despite the attention being showered on him, the handsome fellow seemed to be gracing one particular older woman with the entirety of his attentions: Magdila Maria Consuela Marsonne d’Madrid. The beautiful, ebony-eyed, regal wife of Spain’s aged ambassador.

     By God, the kid had stones. 

     Athos drew an exasperated breath and lifted a hand to capture the attention of the handsome musketeer. The quiet gesture caught Aramis’ attention more quickly than Athos would have thought possible. - as if the fellow had extra sensory perception. 

     When the dark eyes met his, Athos affected a tight toothy smile, drew a quick circle in air around the smile - and solemnly shook his head at the young man. 

     Eyes straight, soldier. The message was clear.

     He was gratified to see the young man understood the intended command - and furthermore - he respected it, straightening his shoulders just a bit and training his eyes on the room as required. 

     Porthos chuckled for a brief moment at that but then huffed again.

     “What now?” Athos asked with an aggrieved sigh. “He’s behaving. What more could you possible have complaint with?”

     “He’s got so many of those women fannin’ themselves o’er there, they’ll disturb enough air in this room t’ put all these candles out!”

     Athos bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Not soon enough though. 

     Captain Treville was standing toe to toe in front of them, eyes hard. “Are we -” He tersely waved a hand indicating the crowd of dignitaries behind him. “- cutting into your visiting time, boys?”

     “No, sir. Apologies, sir.” They whispered as one, drawing themselves up to attention.

     “We’ll discuss it. Tomorrow. In my office. First thing in the morning.” he hissed. “I swear - the new recruit from Lyon has only been at court a few days and he seems to show more decorum than you two combined tonight.”

     The air still felt overly warm where Treville had stood seconds before.

      Porthos’ deep rumbling whisper could be felt all the way to the floor under Athos’ boots.

     “Oh yeah, that kid is _really_ botherin’ me...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 


	4. Damn Peacock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did 'e jus’ dare to curtsy in front of us?”
> 
> “He bowed, Porthos. That was a bow, not a curtsy. I know you know the difference.”
> 
> “Damn peacock.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Athos and Porthos had just left Treville after a brief comeuppance, and neither of them was in the mood to see the boyish newcomer striding up the staircase. He was taking the steps with sunny enthusiasm, two at a time - apparently on his way to a meeting of his own with the captain.

     Last night, the young man had disappeared as soon as the court assignment had terminated. Porthos was the first to note that he had not returned to the garrison with the rest of the troupe.

     Odd, that, Athos thought - but kept his comments to himself. He was fast growing weary of the mystery around the guy. Maybe Treville was rethinking this guy’s quest for a commission. Maybe the fellow’s meeting today with Treville was for orders returning him to his company in Lyon.

     One could only hope.

     “Yer bed was not slept in las’ night, monsieur,” Porthos groused at the newcomer as he hurriedly brushed past them with a nod of greeting and a perfect smile. 

     Athos groaned inwardly. Should have known Porthos wasn’t going to let the moment pass in peace. 

     The remark caused the fellow to look sharply at them over his shoulder. Athos could see he was making some calculations, weighing several responses, evaluating how he might use the moment. He watched, making evaluations of his own, as the young musketeer twisted around, still moving away from them, and laughed. He spread his arms as if beseeching an embrace from both of them as he glided gracefully towards Treville’s office. 

     “Miraculously, big brother, I still had a very, very pleasant night’s sleep. Do not fear, and thank you for looking after the welfare of my bed. And me.”

     Before he disappeared into Treville’s office, he paused to look at Athos and mimicked the manufactured smile Athos had given him at the king’s feast the night before. 

     He drew a circle in the air around the smile. 

     As Athos had done. 

     And shook his head. 

     As Athos had done.

     Just as Athos was beginning to wonder whether this fellow Aramis actually had the audacity to be mocking him, the younger man’s handsome face warmed with a genuine, almost shy, smile and he doffed his hat with a slight bow to the other man. “I was grateful for your attentions last night as well, Monsieur Athos. I hope to steadily improve my behavior and pray to meet the higher expectations of each of you.” 

     He was in Treville’s office before either of them could react.

     “Did 'e jus’ dare to curtsy in front of us?”

     “He bowed, Porthos. That was a bow, not a curtsy. I know you know the difference.”

     “Damn peacock.”

     “Patience, brother. He is young. And, apparently, he is not without extraordinary skills and hidden capabilities - some of which would be far more useful, perhaps, away from the fields of combat. See how quickly he has disarmed us.”

     “He bothers me.”

     “I’m aware, my brother, I’m aware. Let’s get through this day and retire this evening to the tavern on Rue Garand.”

     “Ugh.” Porthos shuddered dramatically. “Tha’s too close to the palace for my likin’ this evenin’ !”

     “It is, I agree, but it may be the one place your aggravating ‘peacock’ has not appeared yet when we are present. There, I might have to have some time and peace to give thought to what business our young brother has with our captain and his absence from the garrison last night.”

     “Ya think ‘e’s been followin’ us?”

     Porthos’ question went unanswered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 


	5. An Unfortunate Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos saw Aramis’ mouth drop open, aghast at the insinuation Porthos had made. There had been no time to tell the big man that they had mis-read their younger brother’s dire situation back here in this alley.
> 
> Oh-oh. 
> 
> “A little gratitude is in order,” Porthos barked before Athos could intercede.
> 
> “Gratitude!” Aramis exhaled sharply in disbelief.
> 
> Time to step in, Athos told himself when the wildcat started stalking Porthos, still tensed as if to attack. In this state, the guy probably wasn’t even aware of how suicidal that would be. No one attacks Porthos unarmed. 
> 
> The blue-eyed soldier slipped between the two, hands held up before him in a plea for peace. “I believe this was all a big misunderstanding. Please allow us to ask your forgiveness, brother ...uh... Aramis? Porthos thought ...” He paused, seeking for the just-right phrasing lest he add fuel to the wild-eyed fire presently burning in front of him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Left the tavern too soon_ , Athos thought glumly. 

     Porthos had not left Athos’ side all evening, the complaints about the new recruit having reached a fever pitch in the big man’s world. 

     Which meant they now were at fever pitch in Athos’ world, too.

     It had a remarkably sobering affect on the older musketeer. 

     Which did not please him.

     Yet, he listened, holding fast to the slender hope that the handsome youth would soon be on his way elsewhere, some place not spelled P-A-R-I-S. Treville’s regard for the new recruit had not seemed to dim over these few days though.

     And he was fast accumulating more admirers, which was the theme of Porthos’ most recent complaints. Porthos’ torment had seemingly won the favor of Serge, the garrison cook and caretaker, a much-revered old soldier.

     “...an’ he comes bargin’ in - right in the middle of me ’n’ Serge sharin’ one o’ ‘is little stories yesterday - wit’ a armful o’ carrots from the market and a brace o’ rabbits from who-the-hell-knows-where ’n’ Serge all sudden goin’ soft in the head o’er the peacock ’n’ his bribery gifts!”

     “Bribery, brother?” Athos said with a smile. “We can’t call them bribes for Serge if we benefit.” 

     Porthos stopped and spun around to face the other soldier. It was late and the Rue Garand was deserted, a single large street lantern flickering near an alley entrance a few paces away.

     “Whadda ya mean?”

     “I mean - I’m pretty sure that was rabbit we had in our stew today. Serge had it saved especially for you. And me. Rare treat, my brother.” 

     Porthos gaped at him for a moment, thunderstruck by the thought that the new recruit had been quietly favoring them - and old Serge - with more offerings.

     A sudden odd breath of noise - grunting, some leaden thudding, like flesh against flesh - blew onto the street from the dim recess of the alley way nearby. There was one sharp, anguished cry, followed by more grunting, unintelligible voices and the staccato irregular beat of boot against wood.

     Porthos and Athos looked at each other. 

     Passion or perfidy? 

     Should they look in on the noise-makers?

     Athos was hesitant. It wouldn’t be uncommon for some couple lost in lust to pick a blind alley to relieve their wants and needs. It was a cold, early spring night and if the temperatures weren’t enough to cool ardor then maybe the two deserved their privacy. 

     However, this couple did sound uncommonly _athletic_ in their enthusiasm, Athos thought with a frown. 

     In that same instant, there was a distinct sound of clothing being torn. Porthos already had his sword drawn. His own hesitancy forgotten, Athos was quick to follow his brother toward the alley.

     There, just meters away from them, was the musketeer recruit Aramis, caught in a hard-to-interpret embrace with another man. Athos and Porthos stared, trying to make sense of what they were looking at.

     In the dim light, and from this distance, it was difficult to assess whether Aramis was encouraging or resisting. A larger, rough-looking fellow appeared to be holding him firmly against a post with his own body, hands tearing at the young man’s clothes and grabbing at exposed flesh. The young soldier’s face was contorted in either ecstasy or agony - it was hard to determine which in the flickering lamp light.

     It was fast becoming apparent though that the young man’s movements were oddly constrained, pressed as he was against a post, beneath the other man. It was also becoming more evident that he was frantic.  Athos was quicker than his brother to realize this wasn’t a moment of passion they were witnessing, and it was certainly far more than rough play.

     It was then that both musketeers saw what was hampering their young brother’s struggle. He was pinned up by one arm - secured to the thick wooden post by a rapier driven through the sleeve of his leather doublet and linen shirt, so close to his wrist that a river of dark stain, likely blood, was trickling down through the ruined sleeve onto his exposed chest. 

     The ruffian had pinned the young man up so high, he had been driven to his toes, nearly off his feet with every excruciating kick or twist in an attempt to keep the man’s hands away from him. Essentially helpless, Aramis was frantically punching and shoving the man with his only free hand, trying to keep him from tearing at his doublet, which was already half-destroyed. 

     “Hey! You! Get off ‘im!” Porthos’ booming voice echoed off the buildings all around them. 

     Aramis’ attacker was startled enough by their arrival to be distracted for a moment. Aramis used that moment to his own advantage. He jumped up just enough to grab the hilt of the embedded rapier overhead with his free hand.  Using the spiked rapier as a brace, he brought his knees up sharply into the man’s ribs, rocking him back to the other side of the alley. The man’s head bounced on the brick wall, and he slid to a seated position, knocked senseless.

     The two musketeers approached their brother who, despite one arm still pinned over his head, was now desperately occupied with searching the remains of his torn doublet, as if looking for something. 

     Porthos, having completely misread the situation, tried to be gently reassuring as they approached the squirming musketeer. “Hold still a moment - We’ll get ya outta ‘ere.”  

     Athos caught the slender young man around his hips and held him up just enough to relieve the weight off of the blade as Porthos worked to remove it from the post. For a brief few seconds, the young man closed his eyes and relaxed into Athos’ hold. His chest was heaving with the exertion of the fight. 

     When the extrication of the rapier didn’t seem to be going easily, Aramis’ eyes popped back open. He was watching anxiously. “Come on, big man, come on,” he chanted breathlessly. “Just cut me free, then! Cut it. Get me down! Quick! I need to...”

     Athos saw the man’s dark eyes dart over to where his assailant had fallen and felt his body go still with dread.

     The assailant was gone from the spot.

     Aramis kicked, knocking Porthos and Athos off balance. They simultaneously spun a half-turn in time to see the hunched figure slowly staggering toward the street. Something was in his hand, Athos realized.

     Aramis erupted into a violent frenzy. The escapee paused to look back with a crooked smile. He waved a small, neatly folded paper with a blood red wax seal at the young musketeer, blew him a kiss, and set off on an unsteady run to the street. 

      “Catch him! Stop him!” Aramis was shrieking. “Get him! Leave me!” He was bucking against the two musketeers trying to free him. ”Stop him!” 

      Athos was quick to dart to the street, but the man had already disappeared into the shadows. 

     “You let him get away!” The heat in the young man’s voice was more than enough to drive both musketeers back a few steps at first. He was spinning from his pinned arm and desperately trying to tug himself free again.

     “Instead o’ chasin’ yer paramour, maybe it’s more important that we get ya free first, yeah?” Porthos snapped at the squirming soldier. 

     Athos shook his head sharply at Porthos in warning. 

     Too late. 

      The young man, deeply angered by the big musketeer’s remark, executed another knees-up maneuver that caught Porthos in the chest and sent him reeling. It was also enough to loosen the rapier and set the young man free at last.

     “What the ‘ell!” Porthos yelled when the man dropped to the ground, thrashed his way angrily between him and Athos, and ran furiously to the street after his attacker. Porthos bent to pick up the fallen rapier and looked at Athos in a mixture of astonishment and aggravation. 

     Before Athos could say anything to relieve his brother’s confusion, though, Aramis was back. He snatched the offending rapier from Porthos’ hand and paused long enough to give the big musketeer a lethal glare, hissing something unintelligible.

     Then he was gone again.

     “What was that?!” Porthos cried, staring at the empty space where the furious young man had just stood.

     “Spanish, I believe,” Athos said. “His command of the language is rather impressive for a supposedly French infantryman. As he rounded that corner, I believe he was saying something about returning that rapier to its owner. As for the bit of conversation he directed at us ... Uhm... Something about our mothers, if I understood him correctly. And possibly - mind you, it wasn’t _exactly_ clear - the circumstances of our individual births. ”

     “Why, that ungrateful li’l bitch! I think we need to go after the prissy brat ’n’ extract a Spanish lesson from ‘is...”

     Athos looked up the alley toward the street, surprised to see Aramis again. So soon? Was he back to offer up more pleasantries in yet another language, perhaps?

     The older musketeer was quick to notice the rapier was no where to be seen.  

     Well, that’s a problem, he thought. What is going on with this guy? 

     Illuminated in the lantern light at the head of the alley, the young soldier’s shoulders were tensed, hands fisted, and he was breathing hard, glaring at them. Eyes glittering like black diamonds. Hair disheveled. Doublet torn open. Mouth bloodied. A crumpled bit of paper clutched in the fist in which the rapier had last been seen.

     It was the paper with which the ruffian had taunted him. Athos imagined the exchange of rapier for paper probably had gone unpleasantly for Aramis’ attacker.

     “So.” Aramis was moving with feline fluidity toward them. A snarling wildcat. “You two! _You_ are Treville’s crème de la crème? The celebrated legends of Paris?” It was evident he was not making a friendly inquiry. It was also abundantly evident he was not being complimentary. 

     It also did precious little to clear up Porthos’ confusion and pique.

     “Oi” Porthos snorted. “Wha’s wrong wi’ ya? WE’RE the good guys!” He thumped his broad chest, frowning at the man. “Rescuin’! Not fixin’ to - _whatever_ you were engaging’ in wi’ that guy!” Porthos waggled his fingers in a clearly suggestive gesture.

     Athos saw Aramis’ mouth drop open, aghast at the insinuation Porthos had made. There had been no time to tell the big man that they had mis-read their younger brother’s dire situation back here in this alley.

     Oh-oh. 

     “A little gratitude is in order,” Porthos barked before Athos could intercede.

     “Gratitude!” Aramis exhaled sharply in disbelief.

     Time to step in, Athos told himself when the wildcat started stalking Porthos, still tensed as if to attack. In this state, the guy probably wasn’t even aware of how suicidal that would be. No one attacks Porthos unarmed. 

     The blue-eyed soldier slipped between the two, hands held up before him in a plea for peace. “I believe  this was all a big misunderstanding. Please allow us to ask your forgiveness, brother ...uh... Aramis? Porthos thought ...” He paused, seeking for the just-right phrasing lest he add fuel to the wild-eyed fire presently burning in front of him.

     “Thought! There was _thought_ behind this? Pray tell! What was that thought, exactly?”

     From behind, Athos felt Porthos bump into him, aggressively propelling them both inches closer the the angry soldier in front of them. Athos dug his heels into the soft mud of the alley, forcefully pressing Porthos back.

     “Look ‘ere, Sugar Boy! T’ our eyes, it looked like a back-alley fling that suddenly wasn’ goin’ so well for ya!” Porthos challenged him, jabbing an accusatory finger over Athos’ shoulder at the younger musketeer’s flushed, angry face, just inches away. “Damn good thing Athos and me were ‘ere t’ save yer skinny ass - hangin’ up ‘ere - like a chicken gettin’ yer pin feathers plucked!”

     Still struggling to hold Porthos back, Athos squeezed his eyes shut in utter annoyance. He really wished Porthos had not lumped him in with his misunderstanding of this situation. Never the diplomat, his Porthos. 

     Athos began plotting how they might extricate themselves from the present circumstance without bloodshed. Well, _more_ bloodshed, he thought as he realized the angry man in front of him still had a freely bleeding wound.

     The fellow was so furious, he didn’t even seem mindful of his injury. Indeed, he looked as if he really wanted - no, _needed_   - to engage in another brawl. Thank God that single rapier was now missing, Athos thought.   

     Good thing or bad thing? 

     He didn’t appear to have any other weapons. That seemed odd. 

     Nevertheless, the young wildcat was still spoiling for a fight. Any fight. None of his ferocious energy from the attack had been shed yet.

     Any man that locked eyes with Porthos like this was either insane, blind drunk or ...

     Lost in pure fury. 

     Gone was the sunny charmer that had haunted their garrison. 

     In the few days since they had become aware of this newcomer, Athos had never seen him like this. Up to this point, it was easy to imagine this guy as nothing more than handsome window dressing. A powder puff in a kingsman uniform. God knows, enough of those types had cycled through their ranks - usually high-borne types from Athos’ own upper class - who thought being a musketeer just might be a right lark.

     Until they encountered the wall of military discipline, battery of challenges, and uncompromising expectations of Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville.

     This guy, Athos told himself - the lean, intense man-boy daring to stare down the mighty Porthos du Vallon - had made that cut. 

     Somehow.

     This guy, Athos told himself, was deadly.

     He was surprised to feel the beginnings of real curiosity and respect - all of his previous notions about this slender youth began dissipating like chaff in a windstorm. Now Aramis presented a greater mystery, and Athos knew he had to proceed with caution.

     In these past few minutes, a host of new questions had been created. Tonight’s misadventure had revealed a number of puzzles, not the least of which was the man’s command and use of Spanish under these peculiar circumstances.

     What was the fellow doing in this back alley tonight anyway? Is this how he had been spending his nights away from the garrison, seemingly without reprimand from the captain?  What was keeping him so busy when he was out of the garrison and out of their sight?

     Athos had just begun to silently berate himself for having been so dismissive of the minor mysteries surrounding the man. Before he could give voice to any of his questions however, he heard a faint chorus of groaning and moaning from deeper within the alley.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	6. Son of Satan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This fellow- ,” Athos swung his blade back to the man at his feet, who had scrabbled a few inches further away, his eyes still riveted to the youngest of the three musketeers. “- has indicated that our young brother, here, is the Spawn of Satan. Oh, pardonne-moi - more specifically, the illegitimate Spawn of Satan. Also, he made a plea for our help and protection from his obvious demonic powers.”
> 
> “And our brother,” he continued, arching an eyebrow at Aramis. “In a remarkably agile verbal riposte - claimed he would rip this fellow’s heart out and eat it raw on the steps of... I might have missed this part... A cathedral?” 
> 
> He paused and looked at the young musketeer with feigned curiosity. “I presume that act would be performed to dispel all these silly rumors about you being Satan’s spawn, my friend?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Behind him, his large brother in arms was on alert instantly.  In a single fluid motion, the two musketeers drew their swords again and pivoted to the dark corners a few yards away. There, sprawled in dim light and deep mud, were at least four men by Athos’ quick count. 

     Only three of them were moving. 

     What had happened _here_?

     He glanced back at Aramis. The man had not moved to join them. He stood, cradling his bloody arm, dark eyes watching them from under a mop of dark damp hair, mouth pursed into a grim line. 

     He did nothing to dispel Athos’ growing concerns.

     Porthos had already wandered over to the man who wasn’t moving. A silvery blade with an ornate golden hilt that gleamed even in this low light was protruding from the man’s chest. 

     “Very little blood. A precise strike. End was quick,” Porthos paused to send a glance at the youngest of them. “Blade look familiar to ya?”  There was no accusation in his voice, perhaps just a shade of admiration.

     Aramis shifted on his feet, twitching his shoulders peevishly, but still said nothing.

     Athos turned his attention to the man among the three who seemed most likely to have commandeered the group. The man was portly - his finery now muddied and bloodied. He clutched at one plump thigh where an expensive-looking rapier sat embedded to its black and gold hilt in silk and corpulent flesh. 

     “Perhaps, sir, you would like to tell us the story of how you and your compatriots came to be in such a sorry state?” Athos was polite, even though he knew he did not feel so inclined. His soldier’s instincts were screaming, telling him that these fellows were not the aggrieved party. It was likely Aramis. It was hard to understand why he was being so tight-lipped on the evidence of tonight’s events.

     The fat man spat at the blue-eyed soldier and lifted his chin sharply at the young man who was was standing further down the alley. He erupted in a string of frenetic Spanish, cut short when the new musketeer recruit charged toward him, shouting furiously in turn at him in the same language.

     So. Spanish was the _langue du jour_ for this little gathering? Athos wondered. Hints of political intrigue were beginning to creep into the list of Athos’ suspicions. What had their little brother gotten himself up to in this brief tour of duty in Paris?

     Porthos, however, was having none of it. 

     “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa there!” Porthos bellowed, waving one big hand in warning at the new musketeer, halting his advance. “What’s all this about then? I hear ya speakin’ the king’s language - it just ain’t _our_ king. So, maybe YOU should answer Athos’ question, Sugar Boy - ’n’ I had better hear the answer _en français_ outta your mouth!”

     The young man scowled and stubbornly chose not to answer. Porthos shook his head in frustration and bewilderment. “Oi,” he grumbled. “Yer botherin’ me.” He looked to Athos for help. “Could you make out what all that was about?”

     “Well, if you’re merely looking for a translation, I might be of some help.” Athos said, cocking his head to one side. “If I heard correctly... And please, _young brother_ , do feel free to correct me, since it appears that you seem to have some startling knowledge of the native tongue of Spain.” He waved his free hand in an elegantly mocking gesture at the disheveled soldier now standing dangerously closer to them. 

     The term ‘brother’ was delivered more as a warning than an honorific.

     “This fellow- ,” He swung his blade back to the man at his feet, who had scrabbled a few inches further away, his eyes still riveted to the youngest of the three musketeers. “- has indicated that our young brother, here, is the Spawn of Satan. Oh, _pardonne-moi_ \- more specifically, the _illegitimate_ Spawn of Satan. Also, he made a plea for our help and protection from his obvious demonic powers.”

     “And our brother,” Athos continued, arching an eyebrow at the newcomer. “In a remarkably agile verbal riposte - claimed he would rip this fellow’s heart out and eat it raw on the steps of... I might have missed this part... A cathedral?” 

     He paused and looked at the young musketeer with feigned curiosity. “I presume _that_ act would be performed to dispel all these silly rumors about you being Satan’s spawn, my friend?”

     Aramis gave a loud huff. “Funny man,” he snapped with a violent shake of his head. He fixed a lethal glare on the other two men that sent them huddling closer to Porthos. They froze in place when the big man growled at them, but the fat man started shouting again. 

     Translations would not be needed. The air was filled with curses and threats and insults - apparent in any language.

     Suddenly animated in fury again, Aramis reached for the sword still embedded in the corpse nearby. 

     “Oh, no-no, monsieur.” Athos moved more quickly to remove the blade first and to wave the soldier back a few paces. 

     To his credit, the young man bowed in acquiescence, but his face was still flushed and stormy. 

     “To whom might this magnificent weapon belong?” He balanced the impressive blade on the edge of his palm and spun it expertly to look down its shaft, ostensibly gauging angles and weight, but actually studying the young musketeer while waiting for an answer. 

     “Mine.” Aramis’ reply was full of fierceness. He started to reach for the weapon again, but Athos stopped him with a shake of his head and a wag of his finger.     

     “Perhaps you can have it back when we have all of this sorted out. Porthos and I will disarm your friends. So, please - just take a few moments and relax.” 

     Thankfully, the young man again stepped a respectful distance away. It was still apparent, however, he had not lost any of the energy of the fight. He was visibly upset when Athos dropped the gold-hilted sword into his own scabbard.

     “In the meantime - toward the end of clearing up the mystery of this melee - let’s get some more facts, shall we? Whose rapier is that fellow wearing so stylishly in his shoulder?” Athos asked sweetly, pointing his own sword to one of the pair in front of Porthos as the big musketeer pulled the weapon free of the man’s wound. The prisoner wailed but fell silent when Porthos pointed the bloody blade at him again in silent warning.

     “Mine.” Aramis’ answer was sharp and impatient. He snapped his fingers and held his hand out. “I would thank you to return it to...”

     Porthos chuckled and shook his head as he slid the blade safely into his belt. “So, now ‘o’s bein’ a funny man?”

     “And the short custom-made blade that I see is so skillfully and strategically planted in that other fellow’s left buttock?” Athos continued, waving his sword at the man who had been continuously whimpering near Porthos.

     “Also mine.” This time the answer was haughty, but had an edge of defensiveness to it, as if the man suspected he was being mocked. Athos saw him draw himself up a bit straighter, chest out and jaw tightened. “Feel free to keep that one, too, big man,” he snarled.

     Porthos just smiled at him. And snapped his fingers in imitation of the other man’s earlier gesture. Aramis’ face shaded darker, and it looked as if he were grinding his teeth. 

     “And the blade sticking out of the fat man’s leg?” Athos pointed with his own blade at the chubby fellow again, still moaning and grumbling angrily to himself as he clutched his plump left thigh.

     “Ah! That! That one belongs to the very same bastard who possesses it now!” Aramis’ answer was swift and full of disdain this time. “Moved too fast for you, didn’t I, you graceless pig!” He spat viciously into the mud at the feet of the fat man.

     That caused another volcanic eruption of unintelligible verbal warfare between the two, replete with all the wild gesticulating - profane and perverse in equal measure - that seemed to serve as an entirely different permutation of the Spanish language. 

     Athos silently marveled again at his new brother’s proficiency.

     A thundering curse from Porthos brought an immediate, blissful silence from all parties. Even Aramis had enough presence of mind to hold his tongue, looking at Porthos wide-eyed. After a prolonged period of quiet, in which Porthos gathered the last of the apparent weapons and herded and secured the wounded men together, he turned again to Aramis.

     “So, little brother, are you going to tell us who these men are to you?”

     In an instant, the snarling defensive wildcat was back. “Well! According to you two scholars, they can only be my paramours, eh?”

     Athos winced at that and even Porthos had the good graces to look properly chagrined. The big man dipped his head in embarrassment and rolled his eyes. He seemed at a loss for words.

     “Let us offer our apologies - again,” Athos said with a quick glance at the other man. 

     The musketeer recruit waved his good arm dejectedly. “ _Peu importe_ ,” he sighed, his anger quickly defused this time. He ran his hand though his unruly hair. Athos noted that it seemed more like a signal of exhaustion than frustration now. 

     Finally. 

     It was the first time tonight the man seemed like a real human, not some kind of mythological beserker. 

     Athos used the moment to offer some help. “You’ve had a very mis-adventurous evening. Perhaps we could assist you now? These men should be confined for assaulting you. We will take them to...”

     “No!” The response was strong, startling both Athos and Porthos. “These men - all four of them - they have to be confined as soon as possible, yes - but they must be held where they are not able to see or speak to anyone.” 

     “FOUR?” Porthos chortled. “Surely the dead one will not speak, so we count three. Perhaps yer countin’ in Spanish, monsieur?”

     “No, but the fellow behind that barrel just to your right will scream to all who will listen just as soon as he regains his senses.”

     Porthos and Athos exchanged a look of surprise, then looked in the direction the young man had pointed.

     Porthos strode into the dark corner, sword at the ready and retrieved one last attacker, a dazed fellow with a prominent blue-black knot on his forehead. After quickly checking the man for weapons, he shoved him toward the other three. 

     “So, _you_ took down all of these men?” Porthos asked, incredulous.

     “No,” Aramis sighed, leaning himself against the alley wall and massaging his sore arm. “That last fool tripped on cobblestone while chasing me. Knocked himself out cold, idiot that he is. Or perhaps, I can hope his misfortune was simply divine intervention. Extra guardian angels on duty.” He made a quick, reverent sign of the cross over himself.

     Porthos smirked and sent the young man a measured look of respect and approval. “Holy Help or not, this is impressive. Won’t be callin’ ya Sugar Boy any more, I s’pose. Does yer daddy Satan have any pet names for ya?”

     “Aramis will do,” the young man said with a dismissive wave of his hand. His attention seemed to have turned to the corpse nearby.

     “Aramis, it is, then.” Athos tipped his hat at him. The young man looked truly exhausted to him now - and just a bit unsteady. Athos was suddenly concerned that the young man’s epic struggle in this alley may have left him with injuries that weren’t immediately apparent.

     “May I offer, once again, our assistance?”

     The young man waved his good hand weakly again in an unconvincing attempt at being dismissive. He pushed himself away from the support of the ally wall with flagging effort and moved back toward the dead man.  Exhaling a shaky sigh, he dropped to one knee and carefully drew the sign of the cross on the deceased’s cold forehead, mouth and heart.

     Athos recognized the words the man was quietly reciting over the body. A prayer - in Latin this time. It was then that he noticed the simple wooden cross that dangled on a thin leather cord from the young musketeer’s neck. He had seen similar ones around the necks of Jesuit acolytes, strolling the malls around the Sorbonne, heads bowed in deep contemplation and study over their copies of theological and philosophical texts.

     The older musketeer shook his head to clear his mind of the vision of this warrior-boy as one of that company. Porthos caught his eye. The big man looked extremely perplexed.

     “The other one...” Aramis was pointing wearily at the dead man in front of them, but Athos was quick to realize the musketeer was talking about the man he had chased into the street. “The one who required the return of his rapier... His body - and this one - will need to be removed from sight before -”

     A single church bell interrupted him, tolling the half hour. Athos saw the young man’s dark eyes go wide, and he looked at the paper he was still clutching in his hand. 

     “Mother of God!” he gasped. “What is the hour?”

     “The bell tolls half past ten,” Athos replied. “Are you all right?”

     “No. Yes. - I mean, no. I have to...” He looked up at Athos and Porthos. There was that evaluating, calculating look again.  

     “I must get to Captain Treville’s home,” he finally said in an anxious rush.

     “Wha...? _OUR_ Treville? Home?,” Porthos boomed, his brows folding into a hard line of consternation.

     “I need your help,” Aramis said, then added, “Brothers.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	7. The Wall of du Vallon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new recruit attempted to elbow past Porthos with far more forceful enthusiasm than the maneuver required. There was a brief tight scuffle as Porthos refused to budge, even as Treville locked eyes with him over the squirming and grunting junior musketeer struggling to get past the Wall of du Vallon. 
> 
> “Are you quite finished, Porthos?” Captain Treville tersely, yet quietly, inquired.
> 
> “Just. One. Moment. More. Sir.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Athos felt inexplicably jumpy, standing here in the shadows, just out of reach of the soft glow of lamps set at courtyard entries dotted throughout the length of this wide, modern street. This was a tonier corner of Paris, a new neighborhood, part of a reclamation of aging Paris that had started under King Henry.

     It shouldn’t be surprising that Captain Treville lived here, Athos thought. He could surely afford it, and he was certainly entitled to it. It just seemed like such an odd fit to the man they knew as their no-nonsense commander.

     Or perhaps his personal ill-ease had more to do with the faint echo this neighborhood had of his own past, the privileged life of nobility. The neat swept walkways. The whiff of perfumed linens. The visions of food-laden feasting tables.

     Memories threatened and Athos redoubled his effort to focus on the scene before him.

     He shifted his weight to one leg and propped one gloved hand on the hilt of his sword and the other on the hilt of Aramis’ confiscated weapon. He was tempted to return it to the vexatious fellow, but to make that offer now, when the man had finally shut up and was occupied with other matters, would be to open another contest that Athos knew he didn’t have the strength for anymore.

     He was just tired, he told himself.

     He watched, trying to suppress a yawn, as Porthos paced in front of the row of hedges that graced the exterior walls of Treville’s courtyard. He heard the big man’s testy whisper into the hedgerow, “Oi! Where’s the benefit o’ bein’ the Son of Satan if ya can’t even find a goddamn key? ‘ow ‘bout I jus’ toss ya over the wall into Treville’s arms?”

     The winter-withered hedge seemed to shake with indignation and Athos heard a muffled, but distinctly Spanish stream of colorful maledictions that directly targeted all future attempts Porthos might make at completing any number of personally satisfying sexual acts for ... what sounded like...? 

     Athos struggled to hear. 

     Oh. 

     ...the rest of his life. 

     Athos reasoned it would be best to keep that translation to himself and simply shrugged when Porthos turned to him, his large brown eyes looking delightfully and innocently expectant.

     “Is any of this surprising you, my brother?” Porthos whispered conversationally as he returned to watching Aramis root about in the shrubs.

     Athos, too, was watching the new recruit, debating whether he could get any answers to his multitude of questions - or perhaps just a modicum of personal satisfaction - by simply throttling the handsome trouble maker. 

     Right here. 

     At Treville’s _locked_ front gate.

     The risk of alarming the quiet households all around Treville’s elegant abode weighed heavily in his decision to remain outwardly calm. He resolved to continue watching the night’s adventure unfold around the young man with his signature stoicism. 

     “Porthos,” he sighed as the shrubbery rustled and shook nearby, “Tonight, Beelzebub himself could shoot up through the ground beneath my feet and execute a perfect pirouette before my weary - yet tragically sober - person, and I confess, I would have no more surprise left in me to offer him.” 

     Just then, the musketeer recruit popped free from a dried-up hedge and triumphantly held up a key - presumably to Treville’s gate. As he absently batted dead leaves from his dark and perfect curls of ebony hair, his handsome face was radiant with smugness. 

     Until Porthos growled and snatched the large key from his hands.

     “Athos ’n’ me are still in charge o' this circus o' yers, brother,” he whispered harshly in the shadows with a scolding wag of his finger, “Unless, o’ course, ya can tell us a bit more 'bout yer mystery business with our captain?”

     Predictably, Aramis pulled his lower lip in between clenched teeth, signaling there would be no answers forthcoming. He simply glared at the other musketeers.

     Athos grimaced. For the past hour, they had endured Aramis’ continuous pleas - and threats - and insistence - that he be taken to Treville’s home. If the young man simply had seen fit to offer more explanations for tonight’s attacks and intrigue, perhaps things could have gone more smoothly between them. 

     Instead, the trio continued to bicker over time, transport and Treville - prompting Athos finally to assert authority, firmly reasoning with Aramis that if his clutch of captives truly needed seclusion, then that task would have to be the most immediate priority.

     Despite the lack of explanations offered about Captain Treville’s implied involvement in Aramis’ misadventures, they had worked together to swiftly and successfully secure horse and wagon and had gotten the prisoners to the garrison. Athos rallied a number of trusted brothers in arms from their barracks beds and set them to guard the four men with precious little to offer by way of explanation but with clear instructions that the next voice any of the captives were to hear would be Captain Treville’s.

     If they thought Athos sounded like either master or madman, his musketeer brethren kept it to themselves at the mention of the captain’s name and made certain to secure the prisoners for the night.

     Finally. Here they were. At Treville’s gate, key in hand, and hopes high for an end to all the mysteries.

     Before they could unlock the gate to the captain’s courtyard, it swung open. Treville stood before them, gripping a sword in one hand and a pistol in his other. Whom, exactly, had he been expecting?

     “Aramis?”

     “Yes, sir! Here, captain.” 

     The new recruit attempted to elbow past Porthos with far more forceful enthusiasm than the maneuver required. There was a brief tight scuffle as Porthos refused to budge, even as Treville locked eyes with him over the squirming and grunting junior musketeer struggling to get past the Wall of du Vallon.   

     “Are you quite finished, Porthos?” Captain Treville tersely, yet quietly, inquired.

     “Just. One. Moment. More. Sir.” 

     Athos repressed his own smile when he saw the one Porthos flashed at Treville as he released Aramis with the most imperceptible of moves, tumbling the young man into Treville’s courtyard, right at Treville’s booted feet.

     “For God’s Sake! Get in here, men, and lock this gate behind you!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	8. Congrats On Your Extraordinary Persistence, Fella.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No sooner had he secured that promise from weary Athos - who had quickly relented because he recognized it was the most prudent path to his personal release from the Spanish War he found himself in - Aramis unwisely pressed an immediate additional request that his weapons be returned to him. 
> 
> Unfortunately for the young recruit, his request fell more in the manner of a demand onto Athos’ ears, so it was swiftly and summarily rejected. 
> 
> Again. 
> 
> Athos did, however, feel moved to tap into his upper-class breeding in order to unclench his jaw and drolly congratulate his troublesome junior on his “extraordinary persistence”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh.  
> This chapter is dry as dust. Run-on sentences. Editorial pot-holes and patches.  
> Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.  
> It's all fun and games until you hit a plot advancement point and mangle it..
> 
> Things pick up on the other side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Treville’s home was well-appointed. Comfortable. Not garish. Not opulent. It reflected the reserve and dignity of the man himself. In the expansive parlor, with its polished stone floor, a fire was burning low in a generous hearth that was surrounded by an intricately carved stone mantle - the only apparent sign of a possible extravagance.  All other furnishings looked to be comfortable and well-made, but more likely had been chosen for their practicality. 

     Aramis stood near the hearth, huddled in the large wool cape that Porthos had retrieved from his own garrison room for the young man earlier. Porthos had done so out of a fair amount of sympathy for Aramis. Not because the young man was cold and partially defrocked on a frosty evening, but rather to protect him from Athos’ growing aggravation with the new recruit’s endless stream of complaints and quarreling with their fat captive.

     The chill of the mid-March night had begun to take its toll on the embattled young man by the time they were able to find and hire a transport wagon to collect their prisoners - and two bodies. At the time, Athos - in a move he would come to regret - had been only too happy to divest their rich prisoner of his heavy coat, dropping it over their brother’s shoulders, and scowling at the prisoner when the man sent up another tirade in Spanish.

     It was the first time he and Porthos heard their young brother laugh that night - filled with derision though the laughter was, and directed, though it was, at his fat foe. 

     However, the coat was not destined to withstand Aramis’ suddenly fussy standards, because the musketeer and fat man had begun arguing back and forth over it in heated Spanish during the entire trip to the garrison. 

     It was Porthos that had suggested to Athos, through gritted teeth, that he would find Aramis a more suitable covering upon arrival at the garrison - if only to prevent Athos from running one - or both - of the verbal combatants through with his sword in a desperate attempt to get a moment’s peace. 

     Athos had merely given one quick nod - his face so set in stone as the Spanish-laced storm raged around them that Porthos had cause to fear for the safety of the entire party, with the exception of the fortunate dead amongst them.

     Aramis had grumpily relented to Porthos’ proposal, tossing the muddy coat over the fat man’s face and extracting a promise from Athos that the three musketeers would immediately proceed to Treville as soon the prisoners were satisfactorily confined and quarantined at the garrison. 

     No sooner had he secured that promise from weary Athos - who had quickly relented because he recognized it was the most prudent path to his personal release from the Spanish War he found himself in - Aramis unwisely pressed an immediate additional request that his weapons be returned to him. 

     Unfortunately for the young recruit, his request fell more in the manner of a demand onto Athos’ ears, so it was swiftly and summarily rejected. 

     Again. 

     Still too many unanswered questions about the events of the night. 

     Athos did, however, feel moved to tap into his upper-class breeding in order to unclench his jaw and drolly congratulate his troublesome junior on his “extraordinary persistence”.

     Now, standing in Treville’s private residence, the midnight bells having tolled a while ago, both Athos and Porthos still nurtured hopes of getting more information on their new brother’s late night missions of mystery.

     “Athos, please pour brandy for all of us.” Treville pointed at a mahogany cabinet, intricately carved and polished to a glossy shine, under the shuttered windows. 

     Even under his own roof, the man spoke in the clipped tones of command, so Athos turned immediately to the task.  

      Treville had already turned his attention back to his new recruit. “What happened? Why weren’t you here at the appointed hour?”

     Athos and Porthos looked at each other. _Appointed?_

     Treville caught the look between his two commissioned soldiers as Athos pressed a glass of brandy into his hand. He frowned. 

     “Gentlemen,” the captain started to say. “I had hoped to spare you of any involvement in this matter.”

     Please God, Athos thought darkly, gripping his glass of brandy, _that_ particular horse is well away from the barn.

     “I expect you know by now that Aramis is...” Treville paused, clearly considering how he might frame his next words. “Aramis has been... A messenger. In my service. For several months now.”

     With an uneasy glance toward the other two musketeers, Aramis took that moment to carefully withdraw the crumpled paper he had been fiercely guarding for much of the night from the folds of Porthos’ cloak and put it in Treville’s hand.

     Their commander gingerly opened the much-abused paper and reached for a pair of round wire-bound optic lenses which he propped over the bridge of his nose. The room remained quiet, save for the hiss and pop of the fire in the hearth, as the captain leaned toward the firelight to carefully read - and re-read - the lengthy message.

     “Have you or anyone else seen any part of this message, soldier?” The question was put to Aramis.

     “No. That is, with the possible exception of the man who briefly had it in his possession tonight. He is dead now.” Aramis’ response was quick. He stepped closer to Treville to implore in a quieter voice. “I am involved enough to have concerns, captain. Does the message have any implications for my lady? Has my failure to get this to you in time endangered her well-being?” 

     He glanced again at the other two musketeers.

     Oh, this is getting annoying. Athos tensed. He could hear Porthos’ deep, almost sub-audible growl rumbling beside him. The big man was feeling it, too.

     Anxiety was apparent in the young man. 

     Treville moved to take him by the shoulders.“Aramis, listen to me - I do not fault you for being late.  It seems evident that you have encountered some troubles.” He lifted his eyes to Athos and Porthos, yet still did not address them. “The important thing is that you succeeded in getting the message to me, even if I did not get it at the appointed hour.”

     “He ain’ sayin’, cap’n, but ‘e got ‘imself into some serious scrapes tonight 'n' earned a respectful amount o’ bumps ’n’ bruises.”

     Treville caught the look of exasperation thrown at Porthos by the younger musketeer. “You were attacked?” he asked the young man.

     When Aramis didn’t respond immediately, Treville moved to loosen the cape around the man’s shoulders and opened it to see the tattered clothes, bloodied patches of skin, visibly swollen hand and the wound near his wrist that was now crusted over with dried blood.

     “What happened?” 

     “Just a scratch, sir.”

     Porthos hooted. “ _Just_ a scratch!” 

     Aramis rolled his head back on his shoulders and sighed.

     “How many?”

     “At least six. That we know of.” Athos was quick to interject before Aramis had a chance to dissemble the entire event into a weak parody of itself. 

     “Six!” Treville repeated with some measure of astonishment, turning to look at the new recruit. Blissfully unaware of his captain’s new regard, the musketeer recruit had finally reached for the glass of brandy Athos had left on the mantle for him. He was tossing it back artlessly, as if it were mere water.

     “We assume all were Spanish agents. Just a conjecture really, since our brother, here - as well as the two of his attackers that are dead - will not speak for themselves,” Athos continued drily, even as he eyed Aramis’ drinking technique with a bit of dismay.

     Amateur.

     As if oblivious that the conversation was about him, the new recruit seemed suddenly focused with intense purpose - searching the room for the brandy bottle,  He had begun wandering unsteadily toward the liquor cabinet, adding nothing to the narrative, much to Athos’ renewed annoyance with the man.

     When Treville’s frown deepened, Athos felt free to add, “Three of the remaining four did nothing more than grumble and groan. There was one of the lot, however, that seemed to have a special interest in our brother. Their verbal warfare has entertained us for the better part of two very long hours this night. Even so, Porthos and I are still at a loss for a clear explanation of what all of this is about. Sir. All the prisoners are under guard at the garrison, per Aramis’ stringent requirements.” 

     At mention of his name, Aramis perked up. “They await your interrogation, captain. Athos arranged the guard.”

     Treville looked as if he were still weighing words and the bothersome Aramis was still pretending - or not - to be looking for the damned brandy bottle.

     All right, then. So be it. Bottoms up. 

     Athos sighed and drained his own brandy glass, his last bit of patience frayed near its limits. He paused as the last drop lingered on his tongue, suddenly surprised by the brandy’s astonishingly deep, rich taste and silky feel on his palate. He chanced a look at the glass in his hand to see if it was truly, sadly, empty.

     Next to him, he saw Porthos doing the same and their eyes met, wide with astonished appreciation.

     Ah! No wonder the youngster was preoccupied with his search for the bottle; Treville’s brandy was excellent. It could easily be said that Treville’s brandy was _most_ excellent!

      Aramis had just located the brandy and had clutched it from the cabinet with apparent relief when Treville asked, “Did you know your attackers, Aramis? Why had you not mentioned these troubles earlier?”

     Porthos was close enough to snatch the brandy bottle out of Aramis’ hand, frowning at him. “Hey, Sunshine!” the big man barked at the startled younger man. Porthos nodded toward Captain Treville in an attempt to redirect Aramis’ attention. “Are ya lis’enin’? Our captain is talking’ to _you_!”

    Looking between Porthos’ stern face and the confiscated bottle, Aramis took a moment to glower at the bigger musketeer before answering.

     “I became aware of their leader, captain - but only recently. Here - in Paris. I have no recollection of having seen him or any of his thugs in Lyon, nor on any of the Spanish assignments, for that matter.” 

     Athos and Porthos looked at each other again. _Spanish assignments?_

     “I hadn’t even learned the man’s name yet, but I knew him to be Spanish and had seen him about - at the Louvre. He claimed to be a business man - one of the nursery vendors who have been supplying the palace. Plants for landscaping, flowers and the like -  for palace events. He never seemed to be a concern until today. Given his access to the palace and then tonight’s events, perhaps it is safe to assume he may be one of the connections within the palace that the Cardinal was looking for?”

     ”The cardinal,” Treville grumbled as he looked again at the crumpled paper he still held in his hand. “Do you recall when you first noticed this ‘Spaniard’?”

      “It seemed as if it was he that took pains to notice me,” Aramis admitted. “He made a rather noisy approach to me early in the morning following my first time in the Louvre with ...” 

     He hesitated and glanced quickly at the other two musketeers again.

     He was still hiding something. Athos swore to himself. Beside him, Porthos grumbled for Athos’ ears only, “So the nights ‘e’s been missin’ from ‘is bed, ‘e’s been in someone else’s? Inside the Louvre, for Christ’s sake?”

     Aramis was talking again, the mystery of the fat Spaniard only half-revealed. “As it happens, I noticed him again at the market yesterday. He made no effort to hide himself.“  He muttered as an aside, “... as if the fat bastard could.” 

     The handsome newcomer returned to the fireside, rubbing his sore arm and throwing one more shaded look at Porthos and the coveted brandy bottle. “He made his intentions toward me clear enough tonight - but I have no real understanding of how I came to be targeted by him. He must have known that I carried my lady’s...  uh... this message for you. That’s why I suspect that there is someone in the palace who must be aware of my mission and why I have concerns for the safety of... of my... your... our contact, sir.”

     Aramis’ poorly recovered slip-of-the-tongue was picked up by both Porthos and Athos. They looked at each other. _My lady?_

     Aramis stumbled on, “That _someone_ had set the man and his thugs after me. I tried to exercise as much caution as was possible, sir. Today, after my encounter with him in the market, I stayed out of sight and as near to Athos and Porthos as I dared. I had just left the tavern my brothers had visited on Rue Garand - on my way to my appointment with you - when I was beset.”

     Wha...? Athos and Porthos looked at each other. The new recruit had followed them and chosen to stay hidden this time? 

     Treville caught the perplexed looks exchanged between Athos and Porthos and spoke up. “It was my suggestion, gentlemen, that Aramis try to keep himself as close to your company as he could, when he could, these past days should he be targeted for attack. I knew that you would rise to whatever the occasion might call for if assistance was needed. It was all I could offer by way of protection for him.”

     Porthos and Athos both choked back their astonishment. This was the reason the new musketeer seemed to be everywhere they were? Because they were unwittingly on some kind of guard duty for him?

     “I - I was not prepared for the strength of tonight’s attempt to intercept this last message, however.” He rubbed his sore arm again and shifted slightly on his feet. “I didn’t even have time to send up an alarm, and yet ... my brothers were there for me. I was most fortunate to have Athos and Porthos near enough and alert enough to my distress to give aid.”

     Athos could only stare wordlessly at Aramis. He cleared his throat. The young man was as proficient in the diplomatic lie as he was in Spanish.

     “With all due respect, captain.” Athos spoke up, irritation in his voice. “Don’t you think there could have been more control exercised over tonight’s events if Porthos and I had been informed of this fellow’s mission? Don’t you think true protection for our newest brother - and his notably _secret_ mission - should have meant that we actually be able to watch over him with full knowledge of what he might be up against?”

     “Hindsight is considered the most perfect type of vision, Athos,” Treville said with a bit of heat in response to his soldier. “The fewer that knew, the better. Period. You both have my gratitude for keeping the mission - as well as Aramis - intact.”

     “There was a point tonight, sir,“ Athos snapped back, “When that outcome was not so assured. There were losses tonight and time was one of them, apparently. Aramis’ life was nearly forfeit. I think his youth and starry-eyed view of being a kingsman allow him to be used thus.”

     “Be careful, Athos,” Treville said in a low, slow voice.

      Aramis’ brow knitted in consternation.

     Athos would not be silenced. “To count on Porthos and me to be merely ‘ _near by’_ and unaware of his situation was to place him - and his mission - in extreme danger.” 

     Then he added again, with a bite of bitterness, “Sir.”

     Aramis’s handsome face was now flushed red with embarrassment. With all that had passed between them tonight - and over the past few days -  Athos realized the young man probably felt Athos’ complaints to Treville reflected a mistrust of the young man’s capabilities as a musketeer.  

     The young man looked lost in his misery.  “I was certain I would be able to deliver the message safely - as all the others had been done so simply. I apologize, captain, if my overconfidence and the sin of pride has undone this. Does this mean my la... y-your contact has been compromised as well?” 

     “I cannot say at this point,” Treville answered gravely. 

     Aramis swallowed, his misery evolving into something harsher. “They leave in a few hours for Madrid. I regret not being able to say goodbye.” 

     He would not finish.

     “Right,” Treville said, as if to himself. He ran a hand quickly through his hair and looked as if he was deeply distracted, pondering some decisions. He reached for his weapons belt, coat and hat.

     “Athos. Porthos. Please tend to Aramis’ injury - Feel free to search my wardrobe for clothes for him. Get cleaned up - the lot of you. Remain here and allow no one else inside, excepting my return. Bandages, hot water and a few medicinals in the cupboards can be found near the kitchen hearth. I will be back as soon as possible.”

     “Captain?” Aramis looked distressed and confused by the man’s sudden departure.

     “Aramis, I can go places in the palace at this hour that you could not hope to - I will be back.”

     Athos stepped into his captain’s path, a hand planted firmly on the door before the older man could reach for the latch. “We will follow your orders, captain, as we always do - but, in your absence and the absence of any full explanation of what is going on here - from you - may we then have your permission to beat the entire explanation for his presence among us out of our newest addition to the regiment?”

     Treville blinked. Twice. And turned back to the youngest man. “You must have really won these two over.”

     “What?” Aramis looked up to see Athos and Porthos staring at him.  

     Oh. Sarcasm. The second language of the urban Parisian, Aramis realized.

     “They... uh... They have been remarkably resistant to my most ardent overtures. Though I suspect, sir, their obvious upset right now has little to do with my personal charms and social skills.” He gave them a thin, cautious smile. “I think they would like some helpful information from you, perhaps? From me, most certainly, but I am constrained. As you are aware.” 

     He looked askance at the two musketeers. Neither of them looked pleased. Aramis sighed shakily, “And, if I may speak up for myself, I don’t think I can withstand another beating tonight.”

     Treville locked eyes with Athos and Porthos and smiled fiercely. “Fear not, son,” he said without looking at  Aramis. “If these two had been truly resistant to your ‘charms’, I assure you, you would not be standing here tonight.” 

     He planted his hat firmly on his head and swept Athos’ hand away from his door. “Understand, Athos, that as a commander, I am not required to explain anything to you. Or Porthos. Or Aramis. I will simply promise to provide you with as much information as I feel I can - _when_ I feel I can. I hope you also understand this: You and Porthos are two of my most trusted soldiers. I hope things between us remain as they have always been.”

      Over his shoulder, he added as he left, “You have my permission to _un_ -constrain yourself, Aramis. As needed. For your brothers.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 


	9. Porthos Learns about Catalan and Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Offended, the junior musketeer became violently animated.
> 
> Or, Athos observed, it might have been violent if Treville’s excellent brandy had not served to make the handsome young man’s every move seem like an idiotic comic opera. He was fumbling at his hip for a weapon that he had forgotten was no longer there. 
> 
> The move had all the grace one might expect of a wildcat. A wildcat who had just been successively submerged in several vats of silken, ruby-red excellent brandy.
> 
> Athos just watched, this time with amusement, as the young man twisted and turned - huffing and muttering in a language that was neither French nor Spanish as near as Athos could determine - searching himself - and Treville’s fine linen shirt - for the weapons he seemed convinced were still strapped to him. 
> 
> Or, at least, magically concealed in Treville’s fine linen shirt. 
> 
> “O, beware, brother,” Athos whispered in an aside to Porthos who was watching the Aramis Theatrical Production with his head cocked over in sheer puzzlement.
> 
> “Of fuckin’ WHAT?” Porthos asked, genuinely befuddled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Athos came off the narrow stairway from the captain’s bed chamber and ducked his head to come into the kitchen, a few items of clothing from Treville’s wardrobe draped over his arm. He paused in the doorway, watching Porthos struggle with their problematic charge, Aramis.

     “Oi! Sit still!” Porthos ordered.  “In front of Captain Treville, all I ‘eard outta yer mouth was:  _‘just a li’l nick, sir’_ !” His extremely imprecise impersonation of the young recruit sounded more like a squeaking mouse. A simpering falsetto. Girlish.

     Aramis was aghast, staring at the musketeer open-mouthed.

     “Who is...? That’s not... I sound nothing like...!”

     Porthos used the moment to pull the injured arm firmly back toward him so that he could clean away the last trickle of blood from the man’s wound and start the process of bandaging it. The big man was huffing and shaking his head. He continued to grumble as he worked,  “Now - _suddenly_ \- when _I_ got hold o’ ya - yer actin’ like it’s the Second Crucifixion!” 

     Porthos was beside himself. Aramis had hissed and fidgeted and outright caterwauled as the big man had tried to wash the slash wound on the man’s right forearm. There was yet another outburst when he tried to sterilize the wound, which then briefly had begun to bleed anew, setting off another round of vocalized insufferable grievances. 

     From both of them.

     Minutes seemed like hours. Porthos struggled to remain stern - yet gentle - with the younger man. 

     Athos could tell that he didn’t fancy causing the man any discomfort, yet he had a sneaking suspicion that a lot of the guy’s complaining was for Porthos’ benefit. The damn wound hadn’t even required stitching, for God’s sake.

     The dark musketeer announced the end of the first-aid fracas with a loud aggrieved grunt and a flourish of knife, leaving a neat edge to the bandage. He folded his arms across his broad chest, face masked with fierceness just in case his impatient patient wasn’t picking up on his warning to quit with the complaints. 

     He deepened his frown when the other man made a great show of inspecting and re-inspecting his handiwork with the bandages. “ _Alors_ , yer a master assassin _and_ some kinda goddamn surgeon general, too?” Porthos snapped.

     Athos took that moment to step in.

     “Here’s a shirt. And a nice warm vest. Per Treville’s generous order: dress thyself.” The older musketeer held out a neat black linen shirt, a fine weave, draped over one arm, an expensive-looking grey woolen vest on the other.

     Athos leaned back against the low-slung doorway watching the young man slide Treville’s shirt over his head.  

     “I have an idea,” the blue-eyed soldier said. “To break the ice on all this recent secrecy, perhaps I - or Porthos, if you’d rather - could ask you a question. Then, once you’ve answered our question, you can ask us one of your own?”

     Aramis looked over at each of them warily as he tugged on the gathered fabric at the shoulders of the too-big shirt. “A- All right. I suppose.” He shrugged into the vest quickly, still watching them.

     “Allow us to be first, little brother.” Athos brought another bottle of Treville’s excellent brandy and the trio of glasses to the table while Porthos cleared the last of the first aid mess away. 

     Strategically, Athos determined he would keep them all at the smallish table in the room that served as Treville’s kitchen. It had its own hearth and seemed closer - more conducive to getting their new brother to open up a bit. 

     Another cornerstone of the strategy: Treville’s excellent brandy. 

     When the young man had downed two glasses of brandy in surprisingly quick succession, Athos and Porthos raised eyebrows at each other and then settled back to watch for the slightest hint of softening in the soldier’s handsome face. 

     There it was. In less time than either would have thought possible.

     A long deep sigh. 

     One good hand threading slowly through his dark curly hair. 

     The two other musketeers watched, in hawklike silence, when that motion seemed to stall. Long pale fingers, still tangled in the last bit of curl at the nape of his slender neck. Dark lashes fanned against pale skin as he closed his eyes for... 

     One beat. 

     Two beats. 

     Porthos silently nudged Athos and pointed with his chin at their younger brother. 

     Ready.

     “So, were ya excited t’ be in Paris?” Porthos started the conversation.

     The young man opened his eyes and blinked, looking briefly disoriented, at the sound of Porthos’ deep voice. He yawned and rested his chin in the palm of his good hand before he looked over at Porthos.  “Again,” he sighed. “I was excited to be in Paris _again_. Yes. I am. So much is changing in this city...” He paused and lifted his empty brandy glass, frowning at it.

     Athos and Porthos looked at each other in surprise. He’d been in Paris before? Was that Jesuit crucifix part of that story, Athos wondered? _There_ was a question for another time.

     “...but to be a _musketeer_ in Paris...mmmmmm” The young man hummed wistfully with a gentle shake of his head. He was smiling and closing his eyes again, as if he was privy to some celestial vision. “It’s been a dream of mine for a while. It was impossible for someone like me, though - until I heard about Captain Treville...” 

     He seemed to have drifted off again.

     Porthos picked up the decanter of brandy, sniffed it and cocked it at Athos with one eyebrow raised in accusation. 

     Rolling his eyes at his brother in arms, Athos pushed on with the intoxication-enhanced inquiries. “You present a bit of a mystery to us, Aramis. How is it that you landed on Treville’s doorstep?”  

     At this point, it might just be about keeping the new guy awake until Treville’s return, from the look of him. Brown eyes popped open wide, though, at the question. 

     “Oh! They found out I had some special skills. And language skills.”

     They? Who was ‘they’? And “special skills”?

     “Yeah, yeah. We know! Spanish!” Porthos grumbled into the sudden conversational lapse. “As if we ‘adn’t ‘ad to listen to ya barkin’  for half the damn night like King Phillip’s mad dog wit’ yer fat assassin friend.” 

     “Oh... No. Not just Spanish. More.”  Aramis - possibly a wee bit drunk, Athos realized - was wide-eyed and whispering like he was telling them some state secret. “The lingua franca. And spefi... spefic... spe...” The young man frowned over the apparent loss of control of his speaking ability. 

     Determined, he tried again.” _Specific_ ally. Catalan,” he whispered again, comically pleased with himself. 

     “Cata-what?” Porthos queried, mimicing the young man’s theatrical whisper. 

     “It’s a language, Porthos. Spoken in some regions in and around Spain.” Athos informed him.

     Where was this guy from?

     Aramis was nodding, chin still set in his palm. “My lady Magdila loves to hear me speak it. She was born near Barcelona, you know. Like my own mother. She gave me a small book of poetry.” The young man frowned again, suddenly quite pensive. “Where did I leave that?” he mumbled, patting down the billowing fabric of Treville’s fine linen shirt as if it had some hidden pocket in which he might find a small tome.

     Magdila? Jesus Christ. Please don’t let it be so. The Spanish ambassador’s wife? The hairs on the back of Athos’ neck started to raise in alarm. 

     Magdila Maria Consuela Marsonne d’Madrid.

     Is that where Aramis had been spending his Parisian nights? As the secretive guest of the Spanish ambassador’s wife in the Louvre? That would explain all the attentiveness the young man was directing toward the elegant woman at the king’s state dinner the other night. Was the ambassador’s wife Aramis’ spy contact or was something else going on?

     Athos didn’t quite know how to ask the next question.

     But Porthos apparently did.

     “Hey! Brother!” the big man boomed, snapping his fingers in front of the younger man’s face to bring his attention back to the present. “When a woman is keepin’ ya outta yer own bed all night and givin’ ya pretty little gifts, there’s usually a bit more goin’ on than poetry readin’!”

     The handsome young soldier looked startled, then indignant.

     Oh-oh.

     Perhaps a softer, more romantic approach would have been better, dear Porthos, Athos thought, exhaling a exasperated breath between pursed lips. He hoped that little outburst didn’t frighten their wide-eyed rabbit back into his hidey-hole. 

     Nor - please, God - release the wildcat they had encountered in the alley over a different misunderstanding.

     “Where did you meet your lady?” Athos  carefully interjected, quick to hand Aramis another half-filled glass of brandy. Not too much. The fellow was drinking this stuff like mother’s milk, and all indications pointed to the fact that he just might be a light-weight in the drinking division.

     “Barcelona,” Aramis grumbled, still smarting from the perceived insult. He was swirling Treville’s excellent brandy in his glass and - thankfully - became briefly mesmerized by its ruby red glow in the firelight. The alcohol was having a blessed effect on the young man’s attention span. 

     Good thing. Bad thing.

     Aramis was giving Porthos a sidelong glance - with an unaccountably adorable pout, Athos noted - as he slowly continued, “I was told to attract her attention. Months ago.” 

     What? When? Told? Told by whom? And - _Barcelona_?

     “Tha’ couldna been a stretch for ya, with those looks of yers,” Porthos muttered, draining his own glass, seemingly oblivious to the many more questions that the man’s little revelations were engendering.

     “Wellllll...” Aramis said in an throaty drawl. 

     Yup. He’s drunk. 

     Athos began to worry about how this might appear to Treville. As well as the... One. Two. Three? ... empty bottles of his excellent brandy.

     Even the man’s curls were tipsy -  

     Athos caught himself - with some surprise - making that odd observation. He tore his eyes away from the drunken Adonis across from him and examined his own brandy glass as if it would provide some important answers.

     Treville’s excellent brandy was - after all - most excellent.  

     It just was not possible that he was getting drunk. He dismissed the idea. Unthinkable!

     And yet... 

     The blue-eyed musketeer found himself smiling and musing dreamily as he watched as one lock of ebony hair after another collapse over the gentle curve of Aramis’ sable brow. Grinning for no good reason he could think of at the moment, Athos watched as some of those satiny curls caught in those long dark lashes. 

     Athos shook himself. He coughed. What just happened? Sable brows? Satiny curls? God Almighty! Get a grip, man! 

      The Siren that called itself Aramis was tipping its glass up now, watching the last ruby drop roll slowly toward it and lifting its mouth to catch it.  “It wasn’t exactly a challenge,” the Siren was saying, but its voice sounded oddly distant and preposterously musical to his two brothers. They each watched as that last ruby drop carelessly fell and languished on that perfect mouth. Wet and shiny. The pink tip of tongue, slipping from slightly parted lips, worked slowly over the sticky, sweet...

     Porthos was leaning ever-so-slowly forward, Athos realized in a quick double-take of the man beside him. 

     Clearly enchanted.

     Athos knocked knees sharply with Porthos under the table. His stern look broadcast a firm ’Snap out of it!’

     It was Porthos’ turn to cough, covering a moment of embarrassment, noticed only by Athos. He did little to save the moment, however, because the instant he straightened himself on Treville’s chair, he bluntly asked, another question - in inimitable Porthos style: “ _Alors_ , a mysterious someone sent your pretty ass to Barcelona to read _Cata-whatever_ poetry and bed the wife of the old man who is the ambassador from Spain? Have I got that right?”

_Sonofa..._ Athos rolled his head back in what might have appeared to the casual on-looker like a desperate prayer. He snapped forward, though as soon as he heard the snarl from across the table.

     Oh-oh. Not the rabbit. The wildcat.

     Offended, the junior musketeer became violently animated.

     Or, Athos observed, it might have been violent if Treville’s excellent brandy had not served to make the handsome young man’s every move seem like an idiotic comic opera. He was fumbling at his hip for a weapon that he had forgotten was no longer there. 

     The move had all the grace one might expect of a wildcat. A wildcat who had just been successively submerged in several vats of silken, ruby-red excellent brandy.

     Athos just watched, this time with amusement, as the young man twisted and turned - huffing and muttering in a language that was neither French nor Spanish as near as Athos could determine - searching himself - and Treville’s fine linen shirt - for the weapons he seemed convinced were still strapped to him. 

     Or, at least, magically concealed in Treville’s fine linen shirt. 

     “O, beware, brother,” Athos whispered in an aside to Porthos who was watching the Aramis Theatrical Production with his head cocked over in sheer puzzlement.

     “Of fuckin’ WHAT?” Porthos asked, genuinely befuddled.

     To the brother seated beside him, Athos said evenly, “Next time, could you at least _try_ not to couch your inquiries of our little brother in such personal, inflammatory terms, mon ami? Do you not see how he may injure himself in this state? And can you also see what the captain might do if that were to happen while he is in our care?”

     Porthos gave Athos his most dramatic ‘harrumph’ and then leaned over the table with both hands up, flagging the newcomer with his most commanding ‘Calm-The-Fuck-Down’ gesture.

     It worked! Athos was dumbstruck. Again. From frantic, snarling wildcat to exhausted, huffing kitten.

     Of course, Porthos may have had an assist from Treville’s excellent brandy as well.

     Porthos’ lewd, crude question had effectively gone unanswered, though, as the dark-eyed soldier now sat still and mute and glaring at both of them from across Treville’s table.

     Gone was the question; Forgotten, it was not.

     Athos leaned forward, hiding a small worried frown by swiping slowly at his beard. No need to remind himself this was the man that had been a spitting fireball just hours before. Satan’s spawn, the fat man had called him.

     This young musketeer recruit was a strongbox full of contradictions. Complicated. For every one fact Athos was able to plumb from him, dozens more questions arose.

     Porthos had joined the glaring competition, so Athos moved brandy bottle #3 to a less convenient place on a shelf behind them with a sigh. 

     Perhaps it was a prudent time to attempt a change of subject.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 


	10. Marsac, Pebbles and The Maximilien Maneuver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pebbles. Really. The sound of pebbles.” He finally growled, looking skeptical.
> 
> Aramis shrugged one shoulder, coyly. 
> 
> “How many times ‘ave ya done that?”
> 
> “I only did it once,” he admitted readily.
> 
> “Oh. Well. So... ‘ow many times ‘ave ya tried?”
> 
> “Just the once.” The coy shrug again.
> 
> Porthos harrumphed and continued to ponder the young man across the table from him with open skepticism.
> 
> Aramis colored a deeper shade of pink under Porthos’ steely gaze and was moved to innocently offer a bit more information - as if it were meant to minimize the enormity of the other skill.
> 
> “I actually made a lot more coin from wagers won by shooting out flames on taper candles at 30 paces.” 
> 
> Porthos grabbed his head and pitched himself forward onto the tabletop, burbling, “Mother of God, Mother of God, Mother of God.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     “Okay, brother.” Athos announced with a clap of his hands to dispel the hovering thunderclouds and to bring the attention back around to brotherly banter again. No need to lose the entire evening to the bottom of a brandy bottle - or three - as tempting as that seemed right now.  

     “Your turn at last, Aramis - with our sincere apologies for wandering so far afield with our ... “ He grimaced and kicked at Porthos’ foot. 

     The large musketeer straightened and affected an apologetic face for Aramis’ benefit as Athos continued, “... crude questions! What can we tell you of the brotherhood of Musketeers in the service of young King Louis in Paris?”

     Aramis looked up, instantly distracted from his Porthos problem. He didn’t hesitate with his question. It was as if he had been bursting to ask it for days.

     “Is it true you’ve bested Marsac every time you went up against him?”

     With the anger in the room lifted, Porthos jumped in to answer for his older brother with a chortle. “Yes! Every time! ‘ands down! My man Athos, ‘ere - ‘ardly breakin’ a sweat!” 

      Athos rolled his eyes. “The truth is I _did_ break a sweat - every time - but, yes,  I also won every time. I am not ashamed to admit though, when I was up against Marsac, it was always a masterful test of my own skills. He is a true challenge, and he deserves his reputation.” 

     He wanted more answers about the intrigue Treville had pulled this guy into, but he could see the younger man had become abruptly subdued. The Marsac issue seemed to hover in the new sudden silence between them all.   

     So be it - if it would keep this fellow talking - Marsac, it is.

     Athos slid an already-poured half-glass of brandy across the table to Aramis. “My turn!” He announced with manufactured cheerfulness. “Tell me, Aramis, is Marsac mentoring you? Teaching you anything? Are you seeking a commission in the King’s Musketeers because Marsac is...”

     “ _Non_!” The young man looked at him as if he were desperate to be heard. “I sought out my commission months ago! Well before Marsac decided that he would come to Paris.” He stopped, seeming to censor himself, and shrugged wearily. 

     With several short glasses of Treville’s excellent brandy in him and a night full of misadventure behind him, the peach-cheeked peacock didn’t seem so... peacock-y. His dark brown eyes were soft and cheerless as he contemplated Athos’ friendly inquiry.

     For a moment Athos and Porthos thought that would be the end to his personal answers - again. But then he gave Athos a sloppy disarming smile and said, “Marsac did mentor me. And demanded much of me in training - for a while. Not very much, anymore, though.” He drained the brandy glass far too quickly and pushed it back across the table in a silent unsubtle request for another. 

     “I started winning,” he added so softly that Athos almost didn’t hear him over the trickle of liquor into the glass.

     Porthos was openly staring at the new recruit. Gob-Smacked.

     “Winnin’? Against Marsac?” Porthos squeaked. “The fuckin’ Lion of Lyon?” 

     The room resounded with Porthos’ delighted laughter, but Athos noted that Aramis seemed a bit uncomfortable. He could tell that the answer had had a cost for the young recruit. 

     He imagined that Marsac’s loyalties probably had began chilling when the boy’s talent had quickly evolved to the man’s skill. Athos understood that Marsac’s rejections of a young brother who must have stood in the shadows of the fabled soldier’s glory had to have been devastatingly subtle. Probably becoming less subtle as the young brother’s own capabilities were becoming increasingly apparent.

      Loyalty seemed important to this fellow. Was Marsac as miserly in his sense of brotherhood as he was in his support of the younger soldier’s progress? Athos suspected that Marsac’s sudden decision to join their Paris garrison - bearing a full musketeer commission - while his young protegé toiled at achieving that same goal he had set for himself months earlier sent an unspoken message to the younger man. 

     Marsac would always enjoy being superior when it came to his brother Aramis.

     Athos doubted a man like Marsac was doing this out of spite or cruelty. It was Marsac’s nature, perhaps, to keep and control the things he wanted in life. Perhaps this confounding, handsome, skilled, mysterious young upstart was one of those ‘things’. 

     Time would tell. Marsac would be in their ranks soon enough. 

     Too bad. This Aramis fellow had seemed confident and ambitious, but a moment like this revealed a serious vulnerability. Did Marsac blindly exploit that or had he truly developed a respect for his protegé? 

     One thing was clear, Aramis needed to be out from under Marsac’s influence. 

     Athos felt a twinge of disgust toward Marsac that had little to do with their competitiveness in the arena. He also felt a measure of brotherly protectiveness toward this young recruit - and was just a tad alarmed when he realized that.

     “Perhaps I should not have said any...” the young man was saying softly.

     “WHY?” Porthos interrupted loudly, still blissfully unaware of Aramis’ inner turmoil. He was smacking the table, thrilled with the discovery of the new recruit’s skill with a sword against a perceived competitor - musketeer or not. “Aramis! _Brother!_ Do you know ‘ow long we ’ave ‘ad to listen t’ the insufferable braggin’ and gloatin’ and blabberin’ from that Lyon infantry?”

     He was laughing, pressing his palms to his forehead broadcasting his long-suffering displeasure with the new recruit’s former regiment. “Oi! Lis’en! Lis’en ‘ere! Ya gotta tell me if this is true! This _yarn_ jus’ makes me _crazy_ every time I ‘ear it! Jus’ las’ month - yeah? - it was nothin’ but blatherin’ ‘bout this fire-cracker of a sharp-shooter they got. They claimed  ‘e can shoot ’n’ shatter a bottle in the air before it ‘its the ground! Blind-folded! Trackin’ the target by the sound o’ pebbles in the bottle! Pebbles!” 

     Porthos chortled and struck the table again. “Can you even imagine that!”

     The young soldier’s face flushed an attractive shade of pink, and he suddenly seemed very interested in plucking loose threads off of the pristine bandage around his wounded forearm. The silence was so prolonged that Porthos’ big beautiful grin melted into a confused frown. He looked from Aramis to Athos to Aramis again.

     “WHAT?”

     Athos smiled as he watched the newest musketeer recruit over the rim of his renewed glass of Treville’s excellent brandy.

     Well, well, well.

     “He doesn’t need to _imagine_ it, dear brother. Do you, Aramis?”

     Aramis still would not answer, even as Porthos started to sound like a punctured, slowly deflating, wheezing bag of air.

The younger man’s discomfort was easy to read on his face, though. He deflected: “Marsac’s a good friend, you know?. My brother. He’s helped me. A lot. I should not have said anything.” 

     Marsac. Again.

     Athos pushed another half-glass of Treville’s excellent brandy back toward the younger man. He looked like he could used a few ounces of comfort, Athos reasoned.

     And - perhaps - something else from his new brothers: “We’ve forgotten it already, my friend. Except to say that I’d love to see your footwork and that fancy sword of yours in a challenge against me as soon as we can possibly arrange the time in the training arena.”

     Aramis looked up at him, nearly struck dumb. “I... I...”

     “Just say yes, Aramis,” Athos said with a comical wave of his hand. “I will strive to undo any of the bad habits Marsac undoubtedly has taught you.”

     It was perfect. Now it was Aramis’ turn to look delighted. Athos had successfully broken the Marsac spell. Porthos, however, was still staring at their newest brother as if he had grown a pair of satanic horns on his head.

     “Pebbles. Really. The sound of pebbles.” He finally growled, looking skeptical.

     Aramis shrugged one shoulder, coyly. 

     “How many times ‘ave ya done that?”

     “I only did it once,” he admitted readily.

     “Oh. Well. So... ‘ow many times ‘ave ya tried?”

     “Just the once.” The coy shrug again.

     Porthos harrumphed and continued to ponder the young man across the table from him with open skepticism.

     Aramis colored a deeper shade of pink under Porthos’ steely gaze and was moved to innocently offer a bit more information - as if it were meant to minimize the enormity of the other skill.

     “I actually made a lot more coin from wagers won by shooting out flames on taper candles at 30 paces.” 

     Porthos grabbed his head and pitched himself forward onto the tabletop, burbling, “Mother of God, Mother of God, Mother of God.” 

     Athos clapped him on his back, his own deep heart-felt laughter echoing in the big man’s ears. 

     “My turn - again!” Porthos shouted, sitting bolt upright, brushing Athos’ hand of reassurance off his shoulder and crossing his arms over his chest as a sign he would brook no protests regarding whose turn it actually was. “Tell us what you were thinkin’ -- settin’ that lovely red-head after us in the pub the other night!” 

     Porthos made sure he had his darkest, fiercest look set on his face.

     The younger man looked like a hare in a trap - but only for the briefest of moments. He dropped a charming mask of innocence over himself with a speed that Athos marveled at.

     “Oh! Celine!” There was the winning smile - perhaps still a little affected by the uncountable half-glasses of Treville’s excellent brandy. “She was so disappointed in you two! She swore she had made the offer to you both and that you had declined her company. Was there a problem?”

      “ _ALORS!_ You admit that you initiated a threesome between me, Athos and your red-headed girlfriend?” Porthos jabbed an accusatory finger at the man.

     The young man affected a doe-eyed look of shock - far too theatrical to be sincere. “A three-some? _Mon Dieu!_ _Non!_ She was simply to extend an offer to guide you both to the Lenten novena at St. Micheal’s - a mere two blocks away. The evening service was to start at 7 bells. I wondered why I hadn’t seen you there! After all, Easter is not far away and our Lenten pledges are so much easier to keep with vigilant prayer, big brother.”

     Oh, this was going to be fun to watch. Athos reached for his drink.

     Porthos, struck dumb by the new recruit’s preposterous tale, was open-mouthed and staring again. But only for a moment. He regrouped with astounding speed, given the amount of Treville’s excellent brandy in which he, too, had imbibed. “Aren’t ya the pretty little smart ass? What do ya ‘ave t’ say about ‘er assertion that ya told ‘er I called my... my... my _manhood_ by the name of _Maximilien_?” 

     That caused Athos to gurgle up half of the mouthful of his drink in surprise, sending him into a coughing fit. Chalk that up to information Porthos had not seen fit to share with him before this moment. 

     Beside him, the mountain that was Perturbed-mode Porthos sat, unmoving, save to fold his arms over his chest again and fix a demanding glare at his tormentor.

     “With sincere apologies,” said their handsome - and alarmingly inebriated - charge, as he slid himself over the table, his chin propped sloppily in both palms now, on wobbly elbows, moving closer to brother Porthos. “Perhaps I had gotten that name incorrect?” 

     Athos leaned forward following the motion, only slightly recovered from nearly drowning himself in Treville’s excellent brandy, caught in the wake of the dazzling sweetness of the smile that Aramis - gifted as he was with all the qualities of the Sirens of legend - was still able to manufacture for their benefit. 

     Catching himself with a quick shake of his head, Athos propped his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in a “Well-that’s-it-Game-over” grip. This interrogation had definitely taken an odd turn. Athos could only watch his flummoxed brother beside him with amused expectations.

     “I should tan yer... yer hide right ‘ere... an’ now!” Porthos attempted to growl, but merely managed to sound breathless as he was now nearly nose to nose with the other man. He was unraveling quickly - apparently unable to take his eyes away from Aramis. 

     “Promises, promises, big man.” Aramis purred.

     He solved Porthos’ empty threat problem by suddenly dissolving into giggles when Porthos actually seemed to blush. Then gales of  brandy-laced laughter consumed the new recruit until he slipped bonelessly and unceremoniously to the floor. 

     There the perplexing young man lay. Under their captain’s table. At Porthos’ feet. Still laughing uncontrollably. 

     The big man had his arms crossed over his chest again, looking as if he has just swallowed something foul.

     “Honestly, my brother - I think we have to let that round go to him. _That_ was unquestionably funny.” Athos said sagely, scratching at his neck where beard met jaw in a distracting effort not to lapse into laughter of his own.

     “Ya know ‘e’ll be yammerin’ ‘bout this for years t’ come, don’cha?”

     “Yes. Yes, I do.”

     The laughter from under the table was already dying down. In fact, it faded quickly into hiccups. Then, a brief coughing spell. Then, a period of blissful silence. Finally, there was a soft snore that sounded like a mix of humming and that damnable purring sound the Siren made so effortlessly.

     Oh-Oh.

     Treville wasn’t going to be happy about this.

     “Well, come on, my friend! We have work to do.”

     “What? Let ‘im sleep. Jus’ look at ‘im, Athos.” 

     When they both peered under Treville’s table, Porthos nudged the mop of dark curls at his feet with his boot. 

     No reaction. 

     “Ain’t ‘e jus’ adorable? And probably the least ‘armful - to us - that he’s been all night, yeah? Possibly all week! You know what they say about sleeping dogs. Or, in ‘is case, puppies.” 

     He bounced the head of curls on his boot once again for good measure.

     “Be that as it may,” Athos groaned as he stood up and stretched. “I had the distinct impression that the captain needs to debrief him when he gets back. If you were Treville, would you want to find your shiny new super-secret-agent sleeping under your table, drunk off his ass on your perfect brandy, while your two best baby-musketeer-sitters pretended they had no idea how it happened?”

     “I get your point,” Porthos replied, reaching under the table and catching the sleeping soldier by the collar of Treville’s fine linen shirt. “You get the bucket of water. I’ll carry him out to the courtyard.”

     “C’mon, Precious,” Porthos muttered as he tugged the unconscious Aramis free of the table legs and hoisted him up and over his shoulder. “Le’s jus’ call this little wake-up ceremony my revenge for yer red-headed ‘Maximilien Maneuver’.”

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	11. Chapter 11

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     “I had no idea you two were so perplexing to Captain Treville.”

     Did the man ever shut up? Athos asked himself. He could feel Treville’s excellent brandy coiling around his brain to build the beginnings of a thunderous headache. He resolved, as he half-listened to the new recruit grumble, he would name this headache after their young charge. 

     Won’t talk when we want him to, talks too much when we don’t want him to.

     Aramis the Headache. 

     “Frankly, monsieur, Porthos and I had enjoyed a measure of high regard in the eyes of the good captain,” Athos drawled as he carefully rebuilt the fire in Treville’s parlor hearth into a healthy, happy blaze. “Until the day you arrived in this city.”

     Porthos gave an explosive huff at that. 

     Aramis looked between them, innocently astounded.

     “Just never mind us about us now. Move closer to the fire,” ordered Athos.

     Porthos obliged Athos’ command to the junior musketeer with a quick hip-check from behind, which effectively bumped the the wet musketeer recruit a few paces closer to Treville’s parlor hearth. 

     The man seemed, at least, silently grateful for the heat. He was shivering. Icy water was still dripping off him and Treville’s fine linen shirt - and Treville’s semi-sodden expensive woolen vest. Had they all been a wee bit more sober, they might have thought to separate Treville’s finery from the recruit before they plunged him into the bucket full of icy water.

     Each water drop hit the hot hearthstone like an accusation, evaporating with a sizzle into tiny spits of steam that reverberated in Athos’ aching skull. 

     At least the new recruit’s teeth had stopped chattering and his jaw had unlocked. Predictably, neither drink nor locked jaw would deter the complaining.

     “Drowning me didn’t work,” Aramis was grumbling. “So now you will have me engulfed in flames?”  

     Aramis the Headache.

     “We are simply trying to dry Treville’s shirt before he returns. It is an unhappy coincidence that you happen to be in it,” Athos pointed out with deliberate calm as he added one last log to the fire. 

     He stepped back, wondering if the fire had really needed that last addition or if he even had enough sober wit with which to make that judgment.

     “Look upon it as a test of yer _alleged_ satanic powers,” Porthos added, again nudging his troublesome brother a tad closer to the fireplace. “Flames wouldn’ dare touch ya.”

     Aramis groaned, holding his damp hair gripped in both hands. “My head hurts. I think I need another brandy.”

     “Oh, no you don’t!” Athos was quick to assert. He was collecting empty brandy bottles even as Aramis sent up his pathetic mewling for more. 

     “What you _do_ need,” Porthos was quick to add, “is a lot more practice in the drinking arena. Build up a tolerance, cupcake. And...” The big man reached over to catch Aramis’ chin and turn his face left and right, giving it a critical exam. “Grow a damn beard on that fine jaw of yers! Yer in Paris now, for fuck sake! An’ yer a musketeer! Or will be soon, I reckon.”

     In that second between Porthos’ playful declaration and Aramis’ unexpected blush, the flaming logs in Treville’s parlor hearth collapsed on themselves, as hearth fires will do. Athos watched in ill-disguised horror as the spray of tiny golden embers reached out for the hapless, soaking wet young man standing too close to their minor conflagration. 

     Startled by the steam, the too-close sizzling and the smoking embers suddenly hissing on Treville’s fine linen shirt and Treville’s expensive woolen vest, Aramis staggered back, slapping frantically at the few tiny embers that had clung to him. He tumbled backward into Athos’ unprepared arms, which in turn, sent the junior musketeer and two empty brandy bottles crashing to the floor.

     Athos was stunned into inaction.

     Porthos, however, leapt to it. 

     Tiny tendrils of smoke. The acrid scent of smoldering wet wool.  Aramis’ overly-excited yelping. The startling sound of bottles breaking around them. Porthos, caught as he was in his own haze of brandy-fuel wit, was stirred to grab the bucket of icy water that remained after Aramis’ courtyard wake-up call.  

     The mighty _sploosh_ of the ice water hitting the hapless junior musketeer seemed to arrest time itself. Athos’ jaw dropped open. Porthos took a prudent step back, his own eyes wide at the scene of destruction before him.

     For a long time, the only sound that could be heard was the merry popping and hissing of the fire in Treville’s hearth. Aramis, doused with ice water, was still holding his breath in shock, his one good hand - and arm - bleeding amidst a sea of bottle shards around him.

     The man was turning blue. Either from his on-again ice-bath or his lack of breathing. Athos couldn’t tell which. Both, perhaps. 

     “BREATHE!” Both musketeers bellowed in unison at the man. 

     He did. With large gulping, heaving breaths. 

     Then he promptly turned to his side and vomited.

     Athos, with glacial slowness, firmly pressed his fist to his forehead. He could hear the grinding of his own teeth echoing in his ears. 

      So much for brandy - excellent; Treville’s; or otherwise.

     Porthos tossed his arms heavenward. 

     “So - turns out - we learn ya _truly_ mus’ be the son o’ Satan after all, my pretty friend - come after the souls o’ Athos an’ me tonight!”

     He was growling as he reached down and caught the soaked, retching, bleeding, miserable young man by the collar of Treville’s not-so-fine-now, ember-pocked, still-smoldering linen shirt and hauled him, staggering and slipping in the wet like a newborn colt, to his feet.

     “I’ll tend to Satan’s number one son, ‘ere, an’ _YOU_ can clean up ‘is mess, my brother,” Porthos groused as he guided the stricken young man back to Treville’s kitchen. “Exactly ‘ow much brandy did you let ‘im suck up, for chris’sake?”

     Athos sighed. 

     And sighed again as he surveyed the damage. 

     When was the last time he let out a primal scream just for the hell of it? Had he done it _ever_? What was it about this new recruit that made him want to try it out now?

     “You know, my brother,” he shouted instead at the other room, aware that Porthos would ignore him, “At this point in this adventure - when nothing we do seems to improve our lot - I would offer up a prayer if I wasn’t certain that my doing so would startle God into bringing the walls of Treville’s home tumbling down around our heads.” 

     A sudden burst of noise from the kitchen had risen but fell swiftly quiet. Athos told himself he would not look. 

     “Say the goddam prayer, Athos!” he heard Porthos roar. “I’d welcome any and all divine intervention right now!” 

     “W-why... are y-you t-t-trying t-to... t-to... to k-kill m-me?” Athos heard their charge plaintively whine through chattering teeth.

     “Us? Kill _you_! An’ bring an end to all this delightful evenin’s _entertainment_? _Non, non,_ _mon cher_ ,” Athos heard Porthos croon with mock pleasantness. “We would never have missed all this fun! Now, for God’s sake - an’ yer own - sit down and sit still!”

     Athos picked up the bucket and set to work. Again. He winced as he leaned over to begin picking up bits and pieces of the broken brandy bottles. His Aramis-the-Headache was becoming as troublesome as its namesake.

     The young musketeer recruit was oddly - blessedly - silent now. Perhaps, due to his jaw being locked shut by the intense chattering of his teeth again? 

     Or Generalissimo-mode Porthos’ command?

     Or perhaps, he was simply desperate to keep the contents of whatever he had left in his stomach - if only to avoid incurring Porthos’ wrath with another volcanic vomit incident that may or may not involve the big man as collateral damage.

     It was likely the latter, Athos mused as he began the mop-up. 

     Porthos was taking advantage of the silence. He had removed Treville’s no-longer-fine finery and parked the shaking, chilled soldier as close as he dared to the gentle h   eat of the kitchen hearth, making sure that all loose and/or flammable items were removed from the young man’s immediate area.

     The accidental wounds on Aramis were minor. Superficial. They would all heal quickly and without consequence. Athos could hear Porthos patiently telling the distressed young musketeer exactly that as he wound more bandages over all the fresh cuts and bruises on the man.

     As he worked, Athos wondered idly how Treville’s entire collection of first aid supplies were holding up to the demands of the new recruit’s needs tonight. Probably not faring any better than Treville’s formerly generous supply of excellent brandy.

     Athos looked in on the pair when he had finished his task. Aramis was beginning to look like a survivor of a horse-and-wagon hit-and-run, thought the older musketeer.  Tender-mode Porthos was back - dropping his own doublet over the musketeer recruit’s trembling body and toweling his hair as dry as he could with the drier, not-burnt parts of Treville’s woe-begotten linen shirt.

     He tossed the ruined clothes at Athos, attended by another accusatory grimace also aimed at Athos, and turned to his task of chafing Aramis’ legs and feet, trying to get the man’s color to return from that ice-blue tinge to his natural lovely gold-and-peach hue. 

     Burn the evidence or bury it? Athos mused as he dropped Treville’s destroyed clothes at the doorway. Next up: freshen the house before Treville got back. The stench of this last misadventure still hung heavily in the air.

     “Cold or not, I must open some windows and the front door for a bit,” Athos called over his shoulder to Porthos as he reached for the door handle. “This place reeks of vomit and burning wet wool!”

     The door swung wide, spilling lantern light out onto the courtyard - and onto the nonplussed visage of their captain, Jean-Armand d’Treville. 

     “Burning. Wet. Wool-what?” Treville said in a tightly controlled, very, very low voice.

     It was his command voice. The one he used in his office. The one he used that made you wonder if he was going to burst that vein on his forehead that seemed to pulse with a life of its own when he was angry. Or that muscle in his jaw that jumped like there was a rabid dog hidden just under his skin, howling to be let loose - let free to tear your throat out.

     Forehead vein pulsing. Jaw muscle jumping. Here, in the lantern light, Treville had it _all_ going on. Athos was aware there were several people-shaped forms behind Treville, but for the life of him, his frozen brain could not look past his garrison captain. His spit had dried right up in his mouth, and he seemed to have lost contact with his speech center.

     He wasn’t even able to warn his beloved brother Porthos, who was - just now - coming around the corner from the kitchen to see what the matter was. And he was dragging the damp, drunken, disrobed, and decoratively bandaged Aramis with him like a perpetually malfunctioning marionette. 

     Oh.

     Treville was openly gaping at the three musketeers blocking the doorway to his home. “What - in the name of all that is holy - have you two done to him?” 

     Not quite a question. Not quite a demand. More a judgment, really.

      Premature judgment, but judgment, nonetheless.

     “Tell me, brother,” Porthos hissed, from just behind Athos’ right ear, his eyes riveted on the steely face of their captain. “Is the cupcake, ‘ere, botherin’ YOU yet?”

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End file.
